I Hope You Don't Expect Me to Bow to You
by sjohn2999
Summary: Even the most cursory of glances revealed that her task would not be easy like she hoped. This King was a large man, tall and inexplicably muscled for a man who spent his time sitting in an uncomfortable chair. It was doubtful he had any blades hidden on him, but the set of his shoulders told her she'd have to use all the force she had. Strong as a bull. Wait… that wasn't right.
1. Chapter 1: Gendry

Chapter 1: Gendry

Gendry had known that nothing would be the same. He had expected it. He knew her too well to think any differently, but he had hoped it wouldn't be this painful.

He probably should have waited to tell her he was joining the Brotherhood. Given himself time to think of a better way to break the news, because despite the hard and vicious exterior she projected, Gendry knew Arya was little more than a sad and lonely, little girl hidden in wolf's fur. She was terrified of being left alone, and that was just how she would take his being knighted. As a betrayal. An abandonment.

She would hate him for it.

Gendry had expected all of that. He should have planned for it better, but he wasn't unprepared. What he hadn't been expecting was his own reaction to their subsequent falling out.

There was no point denying he had feelings for her. Arya was the best friend he had ever had, including Hot Pie and all the other armorer's apprentices back in King's Landing. Gendry had suspected he would be sad when they parted ways and unhappy with her unhappiness, but he had grossly underestimated the depths of his own pain.

She refused to speak to him. Arya had used that tactic in the past whenever he annoyed her, but he had always found it amusing before. She had never been able to last very long, particularly when he baited her into speaking by purposefully saying and doing things he knew she would find stupid. First, she would purse her lips, as if to force her reprimanding words to stay in her mouth. Then, her face would turn red with the effort of not yelling at him. Before long, she would be so busy ranting about how he was so "stupid" and "bull-headed" and correcting his mistakes that she'd forget she was mad at him in the first place.

It didn't work this time.

Arya quickly developed an incurable deafness whenever he opened his mouth. She could hear everyone else fine and would send glares and spit angry words in their direction, but Gendry received neither glares nor words.

He never thought he would miss being called a stupid bull, but he did, and every time she ignored him felt worse than when he accidentally touched the steel he was shaping (something that had been happening more frequently ever since she had found out about his new family). It was worse than losing the mother he barely remembered; worse than never having a father.

Arya Stark had been slowly driving him mad, and he had seen no way out of it.

Then, she had disappeared; captured by the thrice damned Hound and carried off to gods only knows where; and the pain and desperation increased tenfold. Again, there was nothing he could do, and it maddened him further.

It was ten years later and it was still driving him mad. Here he was, sitting on an iron chair he never wanted, and she was all he could think of.

Most days he was too busy to spare any time to think of her and feel that unexpected pain anew, but it snuck up on him from time to time, and now was no less painful than the first time. In fact, it might have been amplified by the sight of the tall, wild boy with messy red curls and a horse-sized black wolf standing before him, bearing her colors and her name.

"I'm sorry, Lord Stark, could you repeat that, please? I was distracted by the growling of your wolf," Gendry heard himself lie smoothly. The wolf did not scare him. He had seen dragons, after all, but he could not have Rickon Stark know the true direction of his thoughts.

Placing a restraining hand on Shaggydog (or that's what Gendry had heard the beast was named), Rickon spoke harshly and with an almost violent authority, "I am no 'Lord,'" his answer reminding Gendry even more forcefully of his sister, "Bran is 'Lord Stark,' so spare me your courtesies, for I shall give you none in return until you have proven you deserve them."

Gendry smiled wryly to himself. He had thought killing the fierce, black dragon the Targaryen woman had called Drogon was proof enough, for it had won him his throne; but, apparently Rickon Stark was not one to be impressed with dragon slaying. The rest of the realm, however, seemed to be obsessed with it.

He could not count how many times he had heard the same recounting of his own deeds: "I'll never forget the way you stood your ground as that winged beast dove at you. Like bleeding night it was, what with its scales darker than the emptiness of winter and its scarlet eyes. Even the bravest of men's bowels had turned to water at this point, but not you, Your Grace. No, you stood there, waiting for it. I thought for sure it would eat you; just open its great maw and devour you whole; but you fought like a man possessed. Deadly war hammer in each fist, you pounded on that animal's skull with unrelenting fury, cracking scales with every blow. I suppose all that strength comes from your blacksmith background, Your Grace. Despite your best efforts, nothing would crush its skull, and each blow was making it more agitated. Fighters were going up in flames all around you, but did you give up? No. You kept at it, finally ending its terrible rampage by burying your hammer and arm, up to the elbow, in the thing's eye. It was spectacular. In fact, if your helm had antlers instead of bull's horns, I could have sworn I was watching the ghost of Robert Baratheon killing Raegar Tragaryen in his bejeweled black steel all over again."

Gendry didn't remember it that way at all. There were several major flaws in that story.

It was true that he had never been afraid of fire. Working in a forge had hammered that out of him, but even the hottest forging flames were simple, smoldering coals compared to dragonfire.

He had been roasting in his heavy armor, sweating from both the heat of the fire and nerves. It was difficult to tell which reason was causing more perspiration. Gendry remembered standing his ground, but not out of any bravery. His feet had been frozen to the ground in fear. It was like his body had forgotten how to work. It hadn't been bravery and strength that had allowed him to jump into action and start cracking scales; it had been desperation. Desperation to live.

He had been lucky with the eye. Gendry had climbed on top of the dragon's head (and had no idea how he had gotten there in the first place) and had been preparing to drive both hammers onto the exact center of the thing's skull. He had, however, miscalculated his energy level. Halfway through his back swing, his arms gave out. The heavy hammers came down faster than Gendry could direct them, but with luck, fate, or the guidance of the Seven, they fell dead center of Drogon's left eye, leaving an exhausted Gendry immersed in eyeball muck.

But no one knew his version of events, and Davos, as King's Hand, had forbid him from telling it to anyone. While Gendry understood the wisdom of his guidance (it wouldn't do for the King to look like a fool), he sometimes wished to share it with his Lords just to see their reactions. Gendry had a feeling Rickon Stark would appreciate his tale, even if the other Lords would not.

"What is it I can do for you, Stark?" Gendry asked, disposing of the formalities as requested.

"My Lord Brother has sent me here to plead for your assistance. I, however, do not plead," he replied bluntly, "Winterfell has been in need of a Maester ever since Maester Leuwin died when Winterfell was taken." Rickon paused for a moment, and Gendry almost suspected the lad was mourning the loss of the Maester, though it had been years ago. The reflective moment was gone almost as it started, replaced once more with the demanding and defiant youth, "Our glass gardens were also destroyed during the winter, so we are in need of seeds to renew our food supplies. Here's the part where I'm supposed to say something complimentary to speed you along in your decision, but, like I said, I do not plead. I've told you of our troubles in the North, and now you must make your decision."

It was rare that someone spoke to him this way. Most would call it insolence, but Gendry did not find it so. If Stark did not want to mince words, Gendry was all the more pleased. "You shall have what you need, Stark. No one under my protection shall go hungry and without the knowledge of a Maester if there is anything I can do about it. I will write to the Citadel on the morrow and tell them of your request. I will also speak to the Seed Treasury. I am sure you can work something out with the Master of Flora."

With a curt bow that Gendry suspected he only received because he had been so accommodating, Rickon Stark took his leave, a "Many thanks, Baratheon," drifting over his shoulder. His wolf fixed a penetrating stare at the King before following its master from the hall.

Gendry envied Stark his freedom to leave the Throne Room for a moment before he remembered one very important thing: he's the King. He can do whatever he pleases.

Standing decisively from the hated metal seat, Gendry held his head high and put on his best commanding voice, "I will hear no more petitions for the day. I will hold court again tomorrow morn."

Inclining his head to either side of the room in farewell, Gendry strode purposefully down the stairs and out the door, hoping he did not appear too eager to escape. He had learned that a King had to be skilled in masking his true feelings.

Only when he was several hallways away from the Throne Room and near halfway to his own chambers did Gendry slow his pace. He let his shoulders relax into a more comfortable, though considerably less regal position, and tugged at the clasp of the heavy cloak draped over his shoulders. Even after so many years of dressing in fine clothes, Gendry more often than not felt like he was being choked to death by the fabric. What he wouldn't give to be wearing the dirty rags of his youth. At least those didn't try to kill him.

Fed up with the constriction, Gendry tore the offending cloak off himself, flinging it haphazardly over his shoulder, narrowly missing hitting his Hand who had followed him from the Throne Room. "I know what you're going to say," Gendry told Lord Seaworth petulantly, adjusting his voice to a rough impression of the man, "'You should have stayed to hear more petitions. A good King puts the needs of his subjects before his own.'" Gendry's voice returned to normal, "Is six hours not enough?"

Unoffended by Gendry's rudeness, Lord Davos Seaworth answered with the calmness Gendry had come to rely on, "It seems I have become predictable. That sounds very much like something I would say; however, I was merely going to point out that putting off the rest will just leave you with more work for tomorrow."

"When does it end?" Gendry groaned.

"It does not, My King."

"I was afraid you'd say that," Gendry mumbled, eyebrows furrowed in frustration as he arrived at his chamber. Pausing with his hand on the door knob, Gendry sighed apologetically, "I'm sorry, Lord Davos, for my childishness. I am grateful, really, for your counsel. I don't know what I'd do without you. Now, you better hurry off to your own tower. I'm sure your lovely wife is at her wits end trying to stop your sons from spoiling dear, little Stanna beyond repair. She's sure to need your help."

Davos smiled, full of a father's pride at the thought of his new baby daughter, and bowed his goodbye.

Dismissing the guard at his door to go stand at the bottom of the stairs, Gendry finally entered his chambers. Throwing his cloak onto his bed (one that could have held every boy that ever apprenticed in Tobho Mott's Armory quite comfortably), Gendry wasted no time in ridding himself of his doublet and crown. Rubbing the indents the golden circlet had left in his forehead, he moved to pour himself a glass of strong Dornish wine, starting slightly when a soft, musical voice drifted from his solar, "Gendry? Is that you?"

Smiling as he recognized the speaker, Gendry began to fill a second glass. "And who else would it be?" he asked teasingly, walking into the solar and holding out the wine to her, "Are there many people permitted in the King's Chambers?"

Shireen Baratheon accepted the offered glass from her cousin with the same grace she did everything, "I don't know. I thought, mayhaps, you had acquired a lover I did not know about."

Gendry had chosen the wrong time to take a drink of his wine. He choked as he took his place next to her on the bench, "What?"

Shireen let out a tinkling laugh, "Relax, Dear Cousin, I know you're too busy being King to have a lover. Besides, I hope you would tell me if you had a lover, so I wouldn't have to find out from Lord Varys."

King's Landing had done wonders for Shireen. No longer under the strict and cold rule of her mother and father, Shireen was allowed to do as she pleased and go where she would. With a bit of sunshine and affection, Shireen blossomed from the shy, despondent child Gendry had meet so many years ago into the strong, quietly confident young woman before him now.

And, in turn, Shireen had done wonders for Gendry.

He had never really had a family before, and Shireen had had a lonely childhood. The knowledge of their relation came as a sudden surprise, and neither really knew what to make of it. The first few words had been awkward and a bit forced, but as soon as Gendry realized she didn't care about his low-birth and Shireen realized he didn't shy away from her grayscale, their relationship had progressed swimmingly. Shireen became a comfort to him, always knowing what to say when he was lost in the unfamiliar territory of life at court (for it had been she who had taught him to read); Gendry returning the favor by showing Shireen the fun she had never had growing up. As far as Gendry was concerned, Shireen was the best thing about being King.

Deciding to turn the topic of conversation away from lovers, Gendry asked, "What can I do for you, Shireen?"

"What makes you think I want anything from you? Can't I just want to spend time with you?"

Gendry grinned sheepishly, "Sorry, it's just that everyone seems to want something from me. It's become a reflex."

She reached up and gently rubbed the creases between his eyes, "You've been thinking too hard."

He let out a bark of laughter, "I've been told my thinking face looks stupid. I can only imagine what the Lords of my small counsel think when they see me pondering the problems of the realm. They probably think a monkey could do the job better than I."

"Perhaps they are thinking so, but they would never say it to your face. Besides, a monkey wouldn't look near as fine on the Iron Throne," she told him, eyes sparking fondly at him. "Now, I did come here for a purpose," – she held up a hand to stop him before he could interject with an "I knew you wanted something from me," – "I came to ask you to dine with me this evening. It's been so long since we've spent any real time together, and I miss you."

Her sincerity could not be doubted, and Gendry loved her all the more for it. He pushed a rogue strand of hair behind her ear, his thumb brushing her ruined cheek gently, "I suppose I can make time for you, Dear Cousin. But it's your fault if the Merchant's Guild gets angry because I was suppose to meet with them instead. Don't be surprised if your next batch of silks is not as fine as before."

"'Supposed,' not 'suppose,'" she corrected him kindly as she rose to her feet, "And if my silks do not meet my expectations, I shall just make you buy me more." Shireen kissed the top of his head and swept to the door. "I expect you not to be late," she warned and closed the door behind her.

"Supposed," Gendry repeated, mulling the feel of it in his mouth and trying to burn it into his memory so he wouldn't make the mistake again. It would not do for the King to slip into the speech of a commoner, even if that's what he was. "Supposed," he said again, then downed his glass and walked over to the desk in the corner of the room.

It really was absurd how much space was afforded to one man, Gendry thought as he collapsed in the chair and propped his feet on the desk's surface. He had known families of 10 who lived in hovels that could have fit in his chambers twenty times over, and this was all just for him. It was hard to adjust to, especially when he was constantly reminded that the whole of the Red Keep was his property, not to mention the entirety of the Seven Kingdoms. Absurd.

Closing his eyes and rubbing his crown indents again, he spoke tiredly to the room at large, "You can come out now. I know you're there."

When he opened his eyes, Rickon Stark was standing before him, having moved so silently that Gendry could not have identified his hiding spot. "Should I be worried about the strength of my security?" he asked the Stark dryly, "The King's room is not supposed to be easily breached." Gendry allowed himself a private second of triumph for using "supposed" correctly before giving his full attention to the man before him.

Stark ignored his question, "Who was that?" He nodded to the door Shireen had used to vacate the premises.

Gendry did not allow his surprise to show, "That was my cousin and heir, the Princess Shireen. Is she the reason you have broken into my private rooms? Or are you here for a more nefarious purpose?"

"I am here to speak with you about an urgent matter."

"Why did you not bring it up while we were in audience not 30 minutes ago?"

"Because it is a matter of great importance and delicacy. I could not bring it up with so many ears around," Rickon told him with a tone that said it should have been obvious, "Coming to you in court was simply an excuse for being in King's Landing. What I'm about to tell you now is the real purpose of my journey, and Shaggy will make sure we're not overheard."

"So… Winterfell isn't in need of seeds and a maester?" Gendry felt like he was quickly falling behind.

"Of course Winterfell needs those things," Rickon snapped, "Rebuilding after the war has not been as easy in the North as it is here in the South. Bran will be grateful for the assistance, but he'll have to do all that without me. Which brings me back to the real reason I'm here."

"Okay," Gendry said slowly, "And what reason it that?"

"It's my sister. Arya."

Gendry blinked.

"You… you've found her?" he stuttered.

Rickon Starked nodded expressionlessly.

King Gendry Baratheon was gone in an instant, replaced by the stubborn blacksmith apprentice on his way to the Wall who had never truly been buried, despite the best efforts of those trying to groom him into a King.

"Tell me what to do," he said.


	2. Chapter 2: Rickon

Chapter 2

Rickon Stark did not know why the Baratheon was so concerned for Arya. He seemed oddly invested in the success of Rickon's mission; more so than any third-party observer had any right to be; but the King had agreed to all of Rickon's requests (or demands, if he was being truthful) without hesitation, so Rickon wasn't going to complain. He would, however, be keeping an eye on this new Baratheon. If he posed a danger to Arya in anyway, Rickon would not have any qualms with regicide.

Rickon felt confident that he could take down the King, even if the man had destroyed a dragon. A dragon was child's play compared the terrors of Skagos and those Beyond the Wall. Besides, a direwolf could beat a stag any day of the week.

It was, however, under the stag banner that Rickon found himself sailing across the Narrow Sea in search of his sister. Using the King's ship had been unavoidable, for Winterfell had none of its own, and the Manderly's of White Harbor were still in the beginning stages of rebuilding their fleet. For the foreseeable future, the North was land bound without help from the crown.

While flying the King's colors would draw more attention to them in any harbor, Rickon felt that it would make his true intentions less obvious; and Rickon was all about stealth. There was, of course, a drawback of using a sigil not his own. The King had requested (Rickon felt that "commanded" would be too strong of a word, but it had been more than a "request") that if the crowned stag flew from the flagstaff, a Baratheon must be aboard.

The Bastard King had wanted to accompany him on his mission, but Rickon would not hear of it. For one thing, Baratheon was the King. A King could not move about the world unnoticed and trouble always followed those who sat the Throne. For another, the realm needed to be ruled. Sure, the Hand could have taken care of it, but whatever his faults, Gendry Baratheon was determined to be a better King than his father. He would not simply toss aside any task he did not like for a better one, so stay in King's Landing he must.

The main reason Rickon did not want the King with him had nothing to do with the good of the realm. He simply did not trust the man. There was something mighty suspicious in Rickon's mind about how eager Baratheon was to find Arya. It was normal for a King to be concerned for his people, but the readiness of his acquiescence to Rickon's need for a ship and crew went way beyond the required duty of King to vassal. Most people would not question their King's generosity, but it made Rickon wary. He had learned long ago that one's true friends are not always who they appear to be.

The King had agreed to Rickon's reasoning, though grudgingly. But a Baratheon he must have, so Rickon had found himself the reluctant companion of the Lady Shireen who had been sent with the dual purpose of standing in the King's place and serving as a cover for their voyage. No one would question a Princess' desire to see the world before she was tied down and wed.

Rickon leaned against the deck railing and scowled as he thought of the Lady. True, she had been nothing but polite, staying mostly out of his way, and leaving him be with no more than a nod and quiet, "My Lord." That was how he preferred it; minimal contact and no speaking (he could have done without her courtesies, though. However rudely Rickon treated other men and, admittedly, the King, even he knew better than to yell at a Princess.); so by all rights Rickon should be pleased with this arrangement. He was not.

This is _his_ mission. Or, at least, it _was_ before he was strapped with unwanted traveling cohorts. As if the Princess had not been bad enough, she came with a whole retinue of retainers: ladies, servants, guards, and all their possessions. The Princess had assured him that his party would reduce considerably in size once they landed, but Rickon was sure he would go mad long before that time came. What Rickon had hoped to be a small vessel with enough room for him, Shaggy, and a Captain and crew to sail it had quickly and irreversibly become a full-blown galley, stuffed to full capacity before Rickon had even been aware of what was happening.

He was supposed to do this alone, and he would have if he hadn't been in such dire need of a ship, but all this trouble made him question if he shouldn't have just forgone the ship and swam the Narrow Sea: he felt like he was tripping over ineffectual guards everywhere he turned; the servants were always dropping things in fear whenever Shaggy came within sight of them; and, worst of all, the Princess' ladies were always staring at him and giggling. Rickon _hated_ giggling.

All in all, it was enough to set his teeth on edge, so when a voice called out to him, interrupting his thoughts, Rickon nearly physically attacked the speaker. As he took in the figure before him, Rickon mused that it was a good thing he had not attacked.

Tall, strong, and stoic, the Lady Brienne was the one person on the ship Rickon actually respected and hoped to impress. Never one to waste breath with useless words, Brienne of Tarth reminded Rickon strongly of his Lord Father, or what he could remember and had been told of the man. Possessing an unbreakable sense of honor, she was almost naïve in her certainty that everyone else held the same set of lofty values, but she did not give up on humanity whenever she found this belief to be false.

Even more impressive was the Lady's skill with a sword. Rickon had heard of all her deeds, but he had never truly believed the stories until he had seen her practicing on the foredeck in the predawn of their journey's first day. He had never seen anything of the like, and Rickon could see, without a doubt, that this strange, silent woman could have cut him down without so much as breaking a sweat.

In that moment, she had earned his esteem and all the politeness he afforded few others.

"I'm sorry, My Lady, I'm afraid you caught me unawares," for such a large woman she was unnaturally light on her feet, "What was that you said?"

"The Captain wants to speak with you, My Lord" she said gruffly, "The Princess sent me to look for you."

Rickon's scowl was back at the mention of the damned _Princess_. That was the one thing about Brienne that irked him: her devotion to the Princess. Rickon supposed that devotion was a trait one wanted in the Commander of the King's Guard, but he knew if it came down to a choice between saving the Princess and continuing the mission, Brienne would sacrifice the mission every time, outstanding oath to his long-dead mother or not.

"What does he want?" Rickon asked, heading toward the stairs that would take him to the Captain's quarters.

"I suspect we'll find out when we get there," Lady Brienne replied calmly, following him.

Rickon made a noncommittal noise in the back of his throat, whistled once for Shaggydog, and stalked down the hall to the Captain's door. He entered to find the Princess sitting daintily on a window bench (her presence further darkening his mood) and the Captain pouring over a map spread out on his desk.

Captain Devan Seaworth was little older than Rickon, young in face but tall of stature, though he commanded three galley's in the King's Navy. Despite; or perhaps, because; of his father's position as King's Hand, Devan was on the fast track to becoming Admiral when the current one retired. Whatever people thought of the circumstances of his rather nepotistic appointment as Captain, there was no doubting that Devan knew his way around a ship, and his men obeyed his every order without hesitation. Rickon could not careless how Seaworth got his position. As long as the man got him where he needed to be with little fuss and less pomp and circumstance, Rickon was satisfied.

Rickon heard Brienne close the door behind the soft padding of paws on wood, and he put his hand out to place his hand on Shaggy's head, silently telling him to stay by his side. Shaggy had developed an annoying tendency to drift toward the Princess during meetings like this, and Rickon was trying desperately to break him of this.

"Was it necessary to bring the beast to this gathering, Lord Stark? Are you afraid that you'll need protection from paper cuts?"

It took all his effort not to draw his sword at the insolent man to his right. Instead, he settled for adding more venom to his words than usual or necessary, "Do not give me titles I do not wish to hold, Lannister. I am no Lord, so I owe you no protection as such. Perhaps you are the one who is afraid. Does my pet frighten you?"

Jamie Lannister smirked lazily at him from where he was lounging in a chair, "I have seen its like before, lad, I was simply speaking to the beast's size. This is not a large room, and your 'pet,' as you call it, is nearly the size of a horse. A large, sharp-toothed horse with a penchant for flesh. It does not seem wise to confine such an animal to a space such as this." Though the word he was saying were harmless enough, Rickon felt as though he was being mocked, and he did not take kindly to being mocked.

If he had his way, Rickon would have thrown Jamie Lannister through the Captain's window, weighed down with an anvil tied to his feet, but Lannister was there by order of the King at the request of Lord Commander Jon Snow, so there was nothing for it.

They had all had the same dream: he, Bran, and Jon. Rickon suspected Sansa had as well, but he had been unable to confirm this with anything beyond gut feeling.

It had started like any other wolf dream. He was running, running, running, chasing the wonderful scent of warm blood. Hunting. He had been with Summer-Bran, the two were really one in the same during these dreams, and they were joined by Ghost-Jon as they ran.

Their prey; one that Shaggy-Rickon could not remember not matter how he tried; had been unusually difficult to catch, leading the three of them all over the Northern countryside. Just as the three of them leapt to attack, it had galloped off into nothingness, leaving them standing on unfamiliar ground.

It was a strange land, unlike any Shaggy-Rickon had ever seen before, and clearly not part of the North he had been in seconds before. There actually was not much to see. He was surrounded by a fog so thick that he only knew which was way up because he could feel the ground firmly beneath his paws. The only sound was the panting breath of his brothers and what sounded vaguely like water lapping against stone.

A howl ripped through the air, and the fog began to clear, almost as if the sound was blowing it away. Shaggy-Rickon looked to his brother's in confusion, for neither of them had made the call (Shaggy-Rickon knew their voices by heart), but they were both staring, wide-eyed at something approaching from the shadowy mist.

He turned to see what had caught their attention. It was a girl. In a dark, hooded cloak. A girl with a face he did not recognize, but Shaggy-Rickon would know the wolf anywhere, and that wolf would only follow one.

It was Arya.

There could be no doubt, despite the face. It was Nymeria and Arya.

His sister did not speak. She did not look at them. She did not respond to their joyful yelps. She gave no indication that she even knew they were there. They could have been invisible for as much attention as she was giving them; which is saying something since it's kind of hard to miss three horse-sized wolves.

She and her wolf just kept walking, almost floating they were so quiet, past their brothers and on for another 20 yards of so before they stopped, heads cocked and ears perked for a sound he had not heard.

Without warning, Arya and Nymeria crouched as one and sprang into nothing; or, at least, that's what it looked like to him; but when they landed, a stag the color of midnight was pinned and bleeding beneath them.

Shaggy-Rickon sensed that it was the same creature that had lead him there, and an unwanted feeling of regret crept into his chest. It had been a regal creature, but Arya was back and Nymeria was alive. Shaggy-Rickon would tear out the throat of 100 black stags if it meant his sisters were back to stay.

It was then that the girl noticed them. Before his eyes, her face dripped into a puddle at her feet, revealing a second skin beneath the first. He did not know this face either; he had been too young to remember what she looked like besides the flash of a smile, the glimpse of grey eyes, or the biting of a lip; but he recognized it.

When Arya had her face back, she seemed to regain a part of herself that had been missing. She looked down at the limp carcass at her feet, taking in the blood seeping into the hem of her cloak, and let out a heart-rending sob. She collapsed into a heap next to the animal, melting into a useless pile of fabric as Nymeria dissolved into a pelt by her side.

Alarmed, Shaggy-Rickon bounded forward, nudging the empty cloak with his nose frantically. But she was gone. There was nothing left of the girl or her wolf but a cloak, a fur, and the echo of a broken wail on the wind.

Rickon had awakened from the dream more violently than usual, falling off his bed into a clumsy tangle of sheets on the floor. As soon as he was free from his linen captors, Rickon sprinted to Bran's chambers, hindered slightly by trying to pull his breeches on as he went, not caring about the scandalized shrieks he was leaving in his wake. Honestly, Rickon was so agitated that he wouldn't even have bothered with pants at all except that he knew Bran would refuse to discuss anything with him until he behaved himself "like something even half resembling a human being instead of a lawless savage." Wearing pants seemed to fall under this category.

Breathless and yelling, Rickon barged into Bran's room: "She's alive!"

Bran was propped against his pillows, brow furrowed and mouth set in a line. "Yes," he said.

Rickon should have expected that Bran would not be quite as ecstatic about the dream as he had been. Bran was happy, of course, that Arya and Nymeria seemed to be well, but he took the rest of the dream much more seriously than Rickon did. Rickon did not care what the stag represented or why Arya did not have her own face at first or where she had disappeared to at the end. None of that mattered as long as his sister was alive. He would find her, Bran and his symbolism be damned.

Annoyingly, it had been Bran who had identified the unknown setting of their dream as Braavos. He had been there in the minds of others and had been able to identify the distinct smell of the Braavos canals that had surrounded them.

If it solely up to him, Rickon would have started out that same morning, improvising as he went along; unfortunately, it was not up to him. Bran was in charge, and he was more cautious by nature; not to mention unnerved by whatever dark omens he had extrapolated from signs Rickon could have sworn were not there; so Rickon's departure from Winterfell was delayed until Bran could learn more from his greenseeing and they received counsel from Jon.

Jon's answer had come in the form of the Night Watch's Master of Arms, Jamie Lannister.

At first, he had thought it was a joke. Jon couldn't seriously be suggesting that he take _the_ Jamie Lannister with him as a companion on his quest to find Arya, could he?

Apparently, he could.

At the end of the war, Jon had pleaded with the new King for more men for the Night's Watch.

Confused, and a native of the south, the King had replied, "The White Walkers have been destroyed. Their kind has been burned to less than ashes by Raegal's dragonfire. The Wildlings have gone back to where they came from. Why would the Night's Watch need more men? There is nothing more to defend from."

Jon, looking more like a Stark than ever, had stared at the King and spoke with steel in his voice, "Yes, the White Walkers are gone and the Wildings are no large threat, but you cannot stop Winter, Your Grace. We have held it at bay, but it is always coming. The White Walkers _will_ return, and in renewed forces. It may not be for hundreds or thousands of years, but there is much rebuilding to be done before then. I will not allow what happened to become legend again if there is anything I can do to stop it. All I ask, Your Grace, is that you do not forget either."

Jon got all that he asked for and more.

When it came time to pass judgment on the Kingslayer, it had been Lady Brienne who had saved his life. She had regaled the court with tales of their travels together, subtly highlighting the ways in which the convicted man had changed. Though moved by her obvious affection for Lannister, the King could not, with good conscious, pardon him. Past crimes were too numerous and grievous to be absolved by a recent change of heart. But the Lady Brienne's love was enough to secure Lannister a place at the Wall.

In Rickon's not so secret opinion, Lannister had gotten off lightly. His life sentence at the Wall was much better than he deserved. In fact, Rickon had told Lannister so when he arrived at Winterfell with a letter from Jon explaining why he was there. The letter was full of pretty words telling how Lannister had asked to take part in the journey to fulfill an oath he had made to Lady Stark.

Personally, Rickon thought it was a load of drivel. Lannister probably just wanted an opportunity to get away from the soul-crushing cold of the Wall in hopes that he'd find a moment to slip away and desert.

But Bran had bought it hook, line, and sinker, and so Jamie Lannister had become part of the party. And a perpetual thorn in Rickon's side.

It was the Princess that ended the possibility of any further argument. "Oh, he wouldn't hurt anyone, would you, Shaggy?" she spoke to the direwolf and extended a hand in his direction. To Rickon's fury, Shaggy went to her, nuzzling her hand with his nose and resting his giant head in her lap contentedly. If direwolves could purr, Rickon swore Shaggy would have.

So much for man's best friend. The traitor.

"We are half-a-day's journey from Braavos," the Captain cut in, sensing that Rickon was angry and attempting to distract him, "I was wondering how you wish to proceed. I need to know where you want to dock, where you will be staying in case I need to get ahold of you quickly, and approximately how long you intend to stay here so I can properly restock my supplies."

Rickon nodded in understanding and said, "I know the answers to none of that."

Jamie Lanninster drawled disbelievingly back, "What do you mean you don't know?"

Rickon did not understand what was so hard to comprehend, "I mean exactly that, Lannister?"

"Where is she being held?" Lannister tried again, no less arrogantly.

"I don't know," Rickon muttered through clenched teeth.

Lannister sighed haughtily, picking at his fingernails with his dagger, "Then why did we come all this way?"

Rickon clenched his fist, and Shaggy growled. For once, Rickon was grateful the Princess was in the room. She would be able to keep Shaggy in control. Though the fact that she could greatly irritated him, Rickon didn't trust himself not to let Shaggy do all manner of harm to Lannister. "I know she is here, in Braavos. The dreams aren't an exact science," he explained as patiently as he could, which is to say, not at all, "Besides, I had meant to take this journey _alone_. I wasn't supposed to be conferring with anyone, so my lack of knowledge that so bothers you would not have been a problem."

"If I may make a suggestion?" Seaworth cut in. Rickon nodded curtly and the Captain continued, "I've been to Braavos several times, and it's a great place to get things done in secret, but you have to go about it properly. I suggest you set the Princess up in a prominent inn and with more ceremony than necessary. Hang tight for two days acting the part of royal travelers, then the Princess can carry on the charade on her own, I will pleased to help her on that count," Rickon was inexplicably disgruntled at the Captain's seemingly selfless offer to spend time with the Princess, but did not interrupt. He was pleased, though, when Shaggy seemed to share his discontent and growled, lowly again.

The Captain looked startled, and Rickon held back a smirk, and motioned for the man to resume his plan. "The three of you," Seaworth motioned to the Lady Brienne, Lannister, and Rickon himself, "should seek out the Faceless Men. They are not the most savory of characters, but they are good at finding people. It is imperative that you specify that you only want to _find_ the Lady Arya. The Faceless Men mostly specialize in finding someone and not leaving them alive. The distinction is an important one. After you speak to them, a more detailed plan can be developed. How does that sound?"

Neither Rickon nor Lannister could find any flaw in the plan, so a disgruntled silence filled the cabin.

"Princess?" Brienne asked.

The Princess stood up, placed a dainty hand on Shaggy's enormous head, and inclined her head to Rickon. "Shall we go see the sights of Braavos, Lord Stark?"

There was nothing for it. "Let's get this over with, Your Grace," Rickon mumbled resignedly.

 **A/N: Thanks for reading. Let me know what you think. :)**

 **Please.**


	3. Chapter 3: Shireen

**A/N: Here is the next installment. Thank you to everyone who has been reading this story, and a special thanks to those who have reviewed. I appreciate the feedback, and I hope you continue to share your thoughts. :)**

Chapter 3: Shireen

Braavos was absolutely breathtaking.

Shireen loved the Seven Kingdoms and everything about them: the trees, the rivers, the hot wind off the Blackwater in King's Landing, and even the stark reality of the Wall. But Braavos was the exact opposite of the Seven Kingdoms in practically every way. There were no trees here, just building that covered the sky, the canopy of the missing forest. There was water everywhere here, so unlike the Blackwater, flowing past with every step, the smell of the sea permeating every inch of the city.

It was perfect.

Of course, the whole experience might have been improved if her escort was a little less open about his ill-humor.

Shireen looked up from the beautiful silks she was admiring to see Rickon leaning against a barrel of rainwater, his arms crossed and a scowl on his face. He looked out of place in the colorful market and even more lost without his vicious shadow.

Shaggy had been confined to the ship while they were docked which worked out for everyone, including Shaggy. He had the run of the ship since everyone else was staying on the mainland, so he did not have to be careful of screaming ladies or frightened servants.

Shaggy was happy with the arrangement, but Rickon Stark was not. Most people would assume that he was disappointed his wolf could not come with him, but Shireen knew better. Lord Rickon was disappointed that he couldn't stay on the ship as well.

In fact, he had spent one blissful day on the ship with his four-legged friend while she, Brienne, and Ser Jamie had been given a tour of the city by Devan. Shireen suspected the remainder of this week of playacting would have passed in a similar manner had Devan not needed to go off in search of special supplies and Ser Jamie not needed to run a few crucial errands on behalf of Lord Commander Snow, which he claimed could not be properly executed without Lady Brienne's assistance.

Shireen had little doubt that Brienne would have stayed with her if she had requested it, but it was obvious from one glance that Brienne desperately wanted to spend time with Ser Jamie. She had not seen him since he had been sent to the Wall, but her love for him had not faded from distance. Brienne would never risk her honor for her own feelings, so Shireen figured she could do without being under guard every hour of the day if it meant Brienne could be happy for even the shortest period of time.

Though the Princess had given permission for her Guard to leave her side, the Lady Knight could not, under any circumstances, leave her charge to wander an unfamiliar place on her own, so she went about making other arrangements. Shireen still did not know how, but Brienne had somehow convinced Lord Stark to act as companion and protector in the Lady Commander's place for the day, so he had met her outside the inn she was staying in the next morning, ready, if unwilling, to spend the day with her.

When Ser Jamie had seen Lord Stark standing stiffly and moodily next to her, he had laughed at the awkward picture they formed, "From the sour look on your face, boy, one would think you're being led to the gallows instead of spending the day watching exotic animals in the world's most extensive menagerie with a beautiful woman." Ser Lannister shook his head in mock despair, "Come on, lad, that's the Crowned Princess. Where are the courtesies I know your Lord Brother is trying so hard to drill into you?"

Glaring hatred at the man but unwilling to give him the satisfaction of rising to the bait, Rickon snapped his heels together, taking a perfect imitation of a high lord's posture, bowed gracefully, and offered Shireen his arm. Trying not to blush (she was still unused to interacting with men except Gendry in such close quarters which, somehow, wasn't quite the same), Shireen linked her arm in his, and the two of them walked off into the city, heads held high, and refusing to look back.

There was something nice about strolling along on the arm of a handsome young man (because Rickon Stark _is_ handsome, Shireen cannot deny that; he has his mother's Tully hair and eyes, but the proud, sharp features of his father), even if he was, for lack of better word, pouting.

Rickon had become quite accomplished over the years at hiding his emotions from people, so third-party observers had been unaware of his discontent, though Shireen honestly found his frustration oddly amusing and slightly cute, not that she'd admit it of course.

She could imagine how they looked to the rest of the menagerie's visitors as they watched animals she had only ever heard about playing in the water or sleeping in the shade. They make a striking pair; him with the proud and serious way he has of holding himself that asserts an appealing authority beyond his years, and her with her scars that, while repulsive, tend to fill people with a contradictory sense of revulsion and fascination; and Shireen wonders for the first time whether this was all a part of Jamie Lannister's plan.

The young Lord Stark and the Princess of Westeros, handsome and hideous (she refuses to believe Gendry no matter how many times he calls her beautiful; it's just his sense of cousinly affection), no one can look away or forget once they've been seen. Being so conspicuous will make it easier when they need to blend in; no one will be looking for them separately after this; and Shireen is grateful, not for the first time, that a man such as Ser Jamie is with them on this journey. Rickon certainly would not have thought of it, he was too busy trying not to let her see that he was impressed against his will with the striped horses; he doesn't have the mind for intrigue. It was part of his charm.

Smiling at the memory of her companion's determination not to enjoy himself, Shireen continued to watch the unhappy young man who had been unwillingly assigned as her protector ever since.

It was obvious that the heir of Winterfell thought all of this was a complete waste of time. Every second he wasn't using to find his sister was a second in which nothing important was happening. While his determination and familial devotion was admirable, he clearly didn't see the magnitude of the groundwork they were laying.

Holding back a smile as a stray cat wandered up to Rickon and batted playfully at his boots, Shireen addressed the young man before her, "Lord Rickon, what do you think of this silk wrap?"

She would have loved to laugh at the expression on his face, but she was sure he would not respond well if she did. He blinked at her, not comprehending what she was asking him, "Excuse me, Princess, I do not understand."

She let the smile out and beckoned him to her. Nudging the cat away from his boot with a gentleness she had not expected, Lord Rickon walked rigidly toward her. She held out the fabric to him, and he reached out slowly to touch it, giving her a look the whole time that clearly said he thought she was mad.

"It's nice," he told her flatly.

Shireen nodded in agreement, "Do you think your sister would like it?"

He snorted, "Arya would hate it."

"From what I've heard, Lady Arya would hate everything about this particular garment, but I was referring to your _other_ sister."

If it was possible, Lord Rickon's eyebrows furrowed even further, this time from confusion instead of irritation. She held up the wrap with the pretense of examining its pattern in better light but used the cover to quietly explain herself, "I know you're frustrated with this whole charade, My Lord, but the more convincing we are at being tourists, the less attention people will pay to us and the sooner we can look into finding Lady Arya. You see, people will eventually lose interest when they realize the Princess and her retainers are actually quite boring, and then you can go about your business without unwanted questions. Perhaps you should look into making a few purchases of your own to add to your role as overindulged lordling. Don't you think your family would appreciate some small souvenirs from your travels?"

Shireen thought Lord Rickon would glare at her and stalk away, leaving her alone in the middle of an unfamiliar city, but he surprised her. He studied her intently, blue eyes taking in every inch of her face, and that's when Shireen discovered that this angry, rude, fierce boy next to her could be a gentleman when he wanted to. "I apologize, Princess, you're right, I've been behaving poorly," he spoke softly, practically whispering, "Would you be so kind as to help me pick out something pretty? I know little of the fashions of women."

In the end, they had picked out something for every one of his surviving siblings: a silk wrap patterned in lions for Lady Sansa; a Braavossi style dagger that could easily be concealed in a boot for Lord Snow; a large and rare book on Braavossi dream lore for Lord Brandon; and, he spent much time considering before purchasing a gift for the sister he had not seen since he was three, a pair of fine leather gloves that allowed the necessary dexterity for firing a bow while keeping the fingers relatively warm in Northern temperatures. Lord Rickon even bought Shaggydog a choice steak from a reputed butcher.

They returned safely to the inn that evening with a new found camaraderie, which, while not completely comfortable, made Shireen very pleased and hopeful that they may no longer be strangers. It would be nice to have company and friends other than guards and ladies that were bound to her service. If she could manage to get Rickon Stark to be her friend, she'd know it was because he wanted to, not because he felt any sort of obligation to her because of her station as Princess to the Iron Throne.

As she turned to bid him a good night, Lord Stark beat her to it. "Goodnight, Princess," he said and held out his hand as though to drop something. Instinctively, Shireen extended her own hand, and he opened his closed fingers, dropping what looked like a necklace into her open palm.

On closer examination, it was, indeed, a necklace. A fine chain of silver links suspending a tiny, polished stone stag. The craftsmanship was exquisite, and Shireen was taken aback. She looked up from her hand to meet his unblinking gaze questioningly.

He seemed to understand her unspoken question. "Think of it as a thank you of sorts," he explained, shoving his hands in his pockets, suddenly looking the part of the teenage boy he was, "I know I am not the easiest person to deal with. Bran tells me so on a weekly basis, though I suspect it takes a lot of restraint on his part not to tell me by the hour." He smiled ruefully at her, "I am grateful for all you and the King have done to help me, and I'm unlikely to say so again. When I get too much like a spoiled child who hasn't gotten his way, and I guarantee you it will happen, I'm hoping this will remind you that I really do appreciate it." He paused before adding, "Though I would have preferred if Baratheon would have just given me a ship and left me to my own devices."

Shireen managed not to roll her eyes at his bluntness by glancing back down to examine the charm more closely. "Why agate, Lord Stark?" she asked, referencing the colorful, layered stone he had chosen.

"It's Rickon," he corrected, politely exasperated, "and agate is rumored to keep away bad dreams. I know I'm not the only one who suffers from nightmares."

Her eyes snapped up from the beautiful pendent in her hand. How could he possibly know she had been plagued with nightmares since childhood? Sure, they had changed over time, from dragons to fire to White Walkers to the bloody death of her parents, but there was no way Lord Stark – no, Rickon – could have known that. Right?

At that precise moment, Lady Brienne and Ser Jamie joined them, arms laden with packages full of supplies for the Night's Watch. Seeing that his protection was no longer needed now that her guard had returned, Rickon took advantage of her continued speechlessness to take his leave, nodding a quick farewell. Shireen watched him leave, only half hearing Ser Jamie's mocking comment and Rickon's equally jaded and brusque reply through her confused fog.

She allowed Brienne to usher her inside the inn, fussing even more than usual because she felt bad for abandoning her charge. Once she had assured the Lady Knight that she was fine and was left alone in her room, Shireen fastened the chain around her neck, avoiding her own eye in the mirror as was habit.

Shireen was unsure whether agate was an effective cure for nightmares, but she was pretty sure she would not be having any that night. It was hard to dream if one did not sleep.

If the gods were expecting any drastic change in Shireen and Rickon's relationship, they would be sorely disappointed.

Shireen had expected everything to progress as it normally had; Rickon sulking and generally being his irritable self, Shireen having to coax him or Ser Jamie having to bait him into any form of socially acceptable conversation; and it did for the most part. The only differences were that she now called him Rickon, obligingly leaving off his hated title, and he now looked and spoke to her with genuine (if subtle) respect, not the grudging politeness he felt he afforded a lady of her standing. Shireen was unsure what exactly she had done to warrant his esteem, but it made her feel like she must be doing something right.

Oh, and her nightmares had stopped.

She hadn't woken to echoes of her own screams or the frantic beating of her heart since he had given her the charm. Shireen wasn't sure whether the stone was really working or the thought of having a new friend kept the dreams buried, but either way she was grateful; her waking hours were enough of a nightmare right now that she didn't need the added complication of dwelling on dark dreams.

Today was the day that Lady Brienne, Ser Jamie, Devan, and Rickon were going to visit the Faceless Men. Shireen would have loved to go with them, but she had been outvoted. Every single one of them had advised her against it, preferring to lock her in her room at the inn to keep her safe.

Okay, so the door wasn't actually locked, but Lady Brienne had threatened to chain her to the bedpost if she did not agree to stay within the safety of her bedroom walls. If it had simply been Brienne who disapproved of her tagging along, Shireen would have simply pointed out the absurdity of commanding a Princess to do anything and done as she pleased; but Ser Jamie had reminded her that the Lady Commander had her post for a reason, and it would by folly to disregard her counsel; Devan had told her that she was his most precious cargo on this journey, and it was foolishness to knowingly put such cargo in danger; and Rickon had stated bluntly, but truthfully and without the slightest hint of softening the blow, that she would only slow them down; so she had resigned herself to waiting.

Her only comfort was that Rickon had agreed to leave Shaggydog with her. The wolf would draw too much attention to them, and Brienne felt better knowing that anyone attempting to harm her charge would most likely get their throat ripped out by impressively sharp teeth.

But even Shaggy's presence had stopped being a comfort an hour ago when the direwolf had suddenly let out a distressed howl and started clawing at the door.

It was times like these that Shireen was forcefully reminded that Shaggydog was, in fact, a wild animal. Most of the time, he just seemed like an overgrown, easily irritable dog, but the deep gouges his claws were leaving in the sturdy wood of the bedroom door were a very real indication of his lethal force.

While Shireen was 96% sure he would not harm her; the wolf's eyes were lacking the crazed fury she was sure they would carry if something had happened to his master; she also had a feeling that everything had not gone according to plan with the Faceless Men.

The waiting was driving Shireen to breaking point.

For the first time in her life, the Crowned Princess of Westeros wished she had claws so she could attack the unlocked door uselessly as well; anything, no matter how fruitless, was better than sitting here, wondering what was happening and imagining the worst.

They should have been back by now; Brienne checking to make sure she was alright, Ser Jamie tossing a ribald jest her way, Devan smiling fondly at her, and Rickon with a half-mad light in his eyes that meant he was one step closer to finding his lost sister; and Shireen felt her panic begin to rise.

As if he knew exactly what she was thinking, Shaggydog turned to her with pleading eyes and whined piteously. Shireen's heart broke at the sound.

Her mind made up, she stood and walked to the door, turned the knob, and pushed it open, stepping back to allow the direwolf to lead the way. If they wouldn't come to her, she would go to them.

Practically running to keep up with Shaggy, Shireen gathered her skirts and hurriedly wove her way through the crowded streets. The exertion made her feel better. It was nice to know that the pounding in her chest was from running, not panic.

When she reached the House of the Faceless Men (she had seen the building a week before on her way to the market), the crowd grew too thick for her too see, and Shaggy disappeared. Something was obviously happening in the center of the crowd, and Shireen had a feeling that that is exactly where she would find her friends.

Shireen shoved her way between people, using her elbows when necessary, working her way to the center. She was correct in the assumption that her friends would be there. What she didn't expect, however, was to find Brienne and Rickon staring each other down, swords drawn.

A quick survey of the scene told Shireen that the altercation had not come to blows yet only because Ser Jamie had a restraining arm across Brienne's chest and Devan was forcefully pushing Rickon away. She could tell the tide was about to turn, however, with the arrival of Shaggydog who was headed straight toward Devan with fang's bared and dark intent.

A sudden and volatile fury like she had never known took hold of her. How _dare_ they?! How dare they leave her cooped up in the inn while they squabble like children among themselves! After all the protests that she would be put in danger, they turned out to be the only danger she would have faced, and they were more of a danger to themselves! They made her worry needlessly! They weren't in trouble, they were causing it! Every careful step they had taken so far was being put on the line by this outlandishly public display of… whatever foolishness this was! It was unacceptable!

Drawing herself up to her full height, Shireen stepped into the center of the opening and spoke with a rage-filled authority that brooked no argument, "Enough!" Four sets of eyes turned toward her, their bodies stilling at the force of her command.

"Shaggy! Heel!" the direwolf's large head swung her way in defiance, but he obeyed, Devan's legs no longer in danger of being mauled. "What is the meaning of this?" she demanded, "Put away your swords this instant, and let us talk this over in private like civilized human beings."

She addressed the crowd next, "I apologize for interrupting your peace. Rest assured it will not happen again. Now, please, return to your activities before we spoiled your morning."

With hushed muttering, the crowd dispersed, glancing back curiously as they did so.

Turning back to the idiots who decided making a scene in the middle of the street was a good idea, Shireen channeled the regal spirit she saw in Gendry whenever she attended court and set about putting them in their place. "Lord Stark," she started, all familiarity of that morning gone, "Kindly keep your wolf in hand. I would prefer not to have to explain to the King's Hand why his son is suddenly fewer one leg." Rickon's eyes flashed with hot anger, and he opened his mouth to interject, but Shireen quenched him with her own glare of cold fury.

At Rickon's beckoning, Shaggy trotted dutifully to sit by his master's side. Lowering her voice a bit to prevent drawing any more attention to them, Shireen hissed angrily, "Now, would someone please explain to me what exactly happened that caused you all to act like selfish, spoiled children, not to mention almost completely blow our cover?"

Shireen took strange pleasure in the fact that no one would meet her eyes, except Shaggy who knew he was in the clear; he had been with her, afterall. "Well?" she prompted.

It was Jamie Lannister who answered since both of the near combatants were still too incensed to speak without attacking the other, and his words replaced Shireen's wrath with equally cold dread: "The Lady Arya was last seen here. She studied as a Faceless Man, took another face, and has been sent to kill the King."

The almost fight made sense in that moment. Shireen could picture the scene in her head. As Commander of the King's Guard, Brienne would have said something about hastening back to King's Landing to eliminate the threat; the King's safety was paramount to everything else. Rickon, predictably, would have loudly reminded Brienne that supposed "threat" was his sister, and he did not appreciate her planning Arya's death, especially since this was the first real clue he's had to her location. Who cares about the stupid King?

It obviously would have spiraled rapidly from that point. Shireen needed to sit down. She must have swayed on her feet because Devan was by her side in an instant, guiding her to the steps.

This was a disaster. Shireen did not know what Ser Jamie meant when he said Lady Arya "took another face," but she was fairly certain it could not be a good thing. And the part about assassinating the King was obviously bad news, especially given how the King in question felt about his assigned killer.

Gendry had never said anything specifically; Shireen had never asked; but his reaction to Rickon's request for aid in finding his sister had spoken volumes. Her cousin would have given any help he could to anyone looking for family they had lost, that was just the type of man he was, but to volunteer himself was the really telling action. Shireen did not know the extent of their relationship, but she did not doubt that Gendry and Lady Arya had meet before, the latter leaving quite an impression on the former.

Shireen was gripped with compassion for her large, kind cousin and knew she must act quickly if she were to save him from pain, both physical and emotional (she also wondered idly if she needed to see a Maester about these mood swings. She had gone from anxious to outraged to empathetic in the span of less than ten minutes. She was no expert, but Shireen did not think that was exactly normal).

Her mind made up, Shireen stood up, refusing to let the others see her legs shaking, "Captain, ready your ship. We leave tonight."

 **A/N: I hope you liked it. :)**


	4. Chapter 4: Arya

**A/N: Welcome to the next installment. :) Thank you to everyone who has reviewed, I really appreciate the feedback.**

 **This chapter is a bit shorter than the others, but it's also a bit more exciting (in my opinion, at least.) Onward! Enjoy!**

Chapter 4: Arya

 _Quiet as a shadow._ She slipped breezed past the guard on the battlement the moment he turned around.

 _Calm as still water._ The guard reached the end of his assigned patrol area and turned around to retrace his steps; she melted into the darkness of a corner and froze. The guard walked right on by.

 _Swift as a deer._ As soon as he was out of sight, she dashed from her hiding place and took the stairs two at a time, her bare feet barely touching the worn stone, her hand holding Needle still at her side, and her breath coming in inaudible gasps.

 _Quick as a snake._ She met a Maester coming down the stairs. Before the man could even notice she was there, she drew her dagger from her boot, knocked him over the head with the hilt, and slumped him in a position of one who has had too much to drink. No one would be any wiser. Then, she proceeded to the door she wanted.

 _Fierce as a wolverine._ There were two guards stationed at the door. Both in white cloaks. They had not seen her yet, which was fortunate since it would be difficult to take them both by surprise. Drawing forth a handful of coins from her pocket, she flicked them down the corridor. Distracted by the noise, both men followed the sound, and she wasted no time. She lunged at one with all the ferocity she could muster, catching him off balance and toppling him into his comrade. The three of them fell into a heap on the floor, armor clanging loudly on the stone, no doubt warning her prey that something was wrong. Taking advantage of her position on the top of the limb pile, she grabbed the pure white, helmed head of one and smashed it into the equally pale helm of the other. They both went limp.

 _Fear cuts deeper than swords._ She really had been too noisy. Syrio and the Kindly Man would be so disappointed in the execution of her task. Half the castle probably knew she was here. There was no doubt that the target behind the door was aware something was off. She froze, panic setting in when she heard the scuff of boots approaching the door from the other side. The sound of the door knob being turned jolted her out of her incapacitated state, and she managed to vault herself into the rafters above the door. She would be safe as long as he did not look up.

The heavy door swung open, and she found herself staring at the top of a messy head of dark hair, one that was looking around in confusion. Eyes she could not see found the white knights sprawled on the floor, and the shoulders connected to that dark head slumped in exasperation. The King of Westeros stepped out of his chamber and knelt beside his unconscious protectors. "Dayne? Storm?" he asked, shaking their shoulders.

She seized her chance. Grasping the doorframe, she silently swung herself down off the ceiling into the room and hid herself expertly underneath the outrageously extravagant bed. To wait.

The King's words echoed to her from the hallway, "Ned? Edric? What did you do this time? Another challenge to see whose helmet was forged better? Well, you'd both lose to me. I know for a fact that _my_ blacksmith put everything he had into that thing."

He chuckled to himself at the private joke he was sharing with his knocked out friends, and she felt an uncontrollable and inexplicable urge to roll her eyes. She quelled it instantly. No one was supposed to read this girl's thoughts on her face.

Sighing at the men on the floor, the King stood up and muttered, "You guys really need to get your little games under control. I don't mind, but when Brienne gets back you know she's going to hear about this and will likely put you on opposite shifts. You don't want that, now, do you?"

Leaving his shields with the impression that they were out cold because of their own stupidity, the King walked back into his chamber and shut the door behind him. The footsteps trailed leisurely away from her, tired, weary, and completely weighted-down. Being King for the last eight years had clearly taken its toll. Luckily for him, this girl was about to put him out of his misery.

The Kindly Man had come to her two moons ago with a new face and a name to find. To find and kill. Well, she supposed it was less a name he gave her than a title, King of Westeros, but that had been all she had needed to know. How hard could it be to locate the King?

She did not question the Kindly Man. She did not ask who had ordered the contract. She did not ask why this King needed to die. It was not her place to question the House of Black and White. The Kindly Man told her that if she completed this mission successfully she would be inducted as a full member of the Faceless Men; then it would be her place to serve.

It had taken a moon to sail across the sea and another two weeks to make her way to King's Landing undetected. She had spent the last two weeks hiding on the battlements, observing daily comings and goings, and memorizing the changings of the guard. She watched the King from afar, never getting close enough to see anything more detailed than a crown on his head and the white figures that were always flanking him. This girl had found it easier to complete the contract if she did not acquaint herself with the target beforehand.

She tried not to think of or admit to this particular weakness. The Faceless Men were not supposed to flinch from their duty or have second thoughts. This girl was not supposed to care what happened to the people under contract, she was not supposed to have these flashes of memories and echoes of voices from her past self running through her mind as she padded through familiar halls. Arya Stark had died on the Fingers with the Hound she reminded herself; this girl had never been in the Red Keep.

Rolling silently onto her belly, she peered out from beneath the heavy blanket that covered the bed and reached all the way to the floor.

Her target was bent over a desk, studying a map intently and muttering to himself. She watched as he ran a large hand through the dark mop of hair on his head, taking the time to size him up and analyze potential weak points, trying to ignore the fact that he looked vaguely familiar, from the time when she had had a name and wore her own face.

Even the most cursory of glances revealed that her task would not be as easy as she had hoped. This King was a large man, tall and inexplicably muscled for someone who spent most of his time sitting in a horribly uncomfortable chair. Running her eyes up and down his body, she could make out no weapon on his person, worn openly, at least; but there were three places she would have stashed a blade if she was him: strapped to the ribs of his left side (that is, if he was right hand dominant like she suspected he was), tucked in the back of his belt that was hidden by the lose fitting linen of his tunic, and the shaft of his comfortably worn boots.

Of course, he was not her, so it was doubtful he had any blades hidden about his person (she had learned that most men of power preferred to have other men wield their weapons for them), but the set of his shoulders alone was enough to tell her she would have to act swiftly and use all the force she had. _Strong as a bull_ … wait… that wasn't right.

She had never slipped up before.

Where in the Seven Kingdoms had that come from? _Strong as a bear_ was the correct saying, nothing to do with bulls. She would have to contemplate her mistake, but now was not the time.

Now she must act.

Sliding from beneath the bed, she padded with quick and soundless feet across the room to the desk. Unaware of her presence, the King remained bent over his papers, back exposed to dangers he knew not.

Fluid as silk, the girl leapt onto the King's unsuspecting back, drawing the knife in his belt as she went and tossing it to the other side of the room; she had learned to trust no weapon but her own.

From her perch, she could feel that there was no holster for a blade on his chest, so only a hidden boot dagger was still a threat. But there was no time to take care of that at the moment for her victim was responding to being attacked by now; even the most witless men will notice when someone jumps on their back and wraps an arm around their neck.

Drawing her own knife, she whispered her prayer in his ear, "Valar Morghulis," and went to swipe the edge against his throat, thus completing the contract and ensuring herself a place among the most accomplished assassins in the known world: the Faceless Men.

Or, it should have been as simple as that, but the King did not cooperate with her plan. Apparently not as stupid as she thought he was, he must have been on higher alert than usual since his guards were unavailable because the moment she spoke, his hands shot out, grabbed her by the shoulders, and flung her roughly over his head, her back crashing down forcefully on his desk, knocking the wind from her lungs in one gusty breath.

He was faster than she suspected. The strength she had been prepared for, mostly, but she counted on her own speed to counteract his power. Now that that was no longer an option, she supposed she would have to rely on her skill with her steel and hope the King had none. The mission was still salvageable. She had been in worse situations before; she could get out of this, it would just take some creative thinking.

And her breath back.

Using her unfortunate paralysis to more permanently incapacitate her, the King held her wrists together with one of his hands, scrabbling for something, _anything_ , to tie them together with the other.

She need to breathe. Now! Before he got his hands on a length of rope, a boot strap, or even a sturdy handkerchief. Just as he was reaching for the bed hangings, she drew in air with the eagerness of a drowning man. Her lungs burned with each fresh pull, but it was enough.

Flinging her legs over her head, she slammed them into his shoulders with every ounce of force and momentum she had. He went down, and she was once again on her feet.

See, just a little improvisation. Success.

Crouching into her water dancer stance, she slid Needle from its sheath with an ominous rasp, hoping to strike fear into the heart of her victim, after all, _fear cuts deeper than swords_.

No longer worried about remaining undetected, that had gone out the window the moment she jumped on him, she let him rise to his feet and prepare himself for a fight. She had trained for over a decade in the art of swordplay and never backed down from a challenge; she could take this man.

He seemed to sense that she would not attack him until he was ready, so he took his time getting to his feet. Sighing, the King walked to the trunk at the foot of his bed and grasped the handle of a gigantic Warhammer resting on its lid. He swung it a few times, reacquainting his arm to its weight and turned back to her, resigned.

Taking a moment to get his first real look at her, his eyes fell on Needle, and his dark brows drew together in confusion. He blinked as though to make sure his eyes were not lying to him before she saw recognition dawn bright on his face.

A kind of manic hopefulness took over his features, and his gaze snapped to her face, searching desperately for something.

Whatever it was, she knew he would not find it, for this girl had never met this man.

He studied every inch of her face, lingering over every detail and becoming increasingly frustrated as he couldn't locate what he was looking for. And then he met her eyes.

Her eyes were the one thing the Faceless Men did not have to power to change, but it had not been a problem for her as of yet. Countless people had gray eyes, and it was her job to remain forgettable enough that no one would remember her eyes if they were to see her again with a new face. But the two, probing points of blue fire that were currently burning into her soul belonged to the one face from her past she could remember better than her own, and he had not forgotten her.

The hammer slipped from his hand, smashing a crater in the stone floor beneath it. Wide eyes transfixed on hers, he strode purposefully toward her. She cursed herself for her ineptitude when she realized he was now too close for her to do any damage with Needle. This entire operation was not going as planned, and this damn King was just about it blow it even further out of the water.

"Arya," he murmured, disbelief plain in his tone.

He knew her. Still. She wore someone else's face, and he knew her still. The thought both surprised and infuriated her. She had spent _years_ becoming no one, and all she had worked so hard to establish had been uncovered effortlessly by a stupid smith who played at being King. It was maddening. But then, Gendry Waters had always driven her mad.

He towered above her now (not that he hadn't then), and she prepared herself to remain silent through the barrage of questions that she was sure would follow; Faceless Men did not give up any information. She thrust her chin up to meet his look defiantly, but he did not say anything, questioning or otherwise.

Instead, he took her chin in his hand and kissed her.

A small, insignificant part of her brain registered that Gendry's hand was warm, his lips were soft, and his touch had caused her newly uttered name fly away again, but the rest of her pushed him away and drove her dagger deep into his side.

He gasped in pain, a reflex guiding his hand to the hilt protruding from his belly, tugging the weapon free of its fleshy new sheath. Gendry looked unseeing from the blood dripping to the floor to her face, then collapsed.

She watched him fall as if she weren't there, frozen to the spot with an odd mixture of triumph and horror. She didn't even make a move to leave as the door banged open and frantic shouts filled the room; she could only look on with morbid fascination as the bloodied dagger rolled from his limp fingers.

And then everything went black.

 **A/N: I hope you liked it! Let me know what you think. :)**


	5. Chapter 5: Gendry

**A/N: Don't you hate when life gets in the way of writing?**

Chapter 5: Gendry

"Would you like more milk of the poppy, Your Grace?"

Gendry closed his eyes in stifled exasperation at the question he had heard no less than twenty times in the last hour. It was starting to wear his patience a bit thin.

Taking a deep, calming breath, Gendry re-opened his eyes to stare at the same patch of ceiling he had been memorizing ever since he woke up after the whole stabbing incident, and answered as politely as he could manage, "Thank you, Maester, but no. I'm fine."

He could hear the Maester dithering by the door, knowing the King was most likely lying about his physical state but unwilling to openly defy his liege. Gendry decided to help the man out a bit, "Actually, Maester, there is something you can help me with. Could you send a raven to Casterly Rock? Please ask Lord Tyrion to grace us with his presence here in the Red Keep. I feel I will be… indisposed… for an undetermined period of time, and I would feel much better knowing both he and the Lord Hand had the kingdom under control."

Gendry looked ruefully at the Maester and continued with a joking lightness he did not feel, "Do what you can to make my request more eloquent. I'm sure the Lord of Lannister will respond more quickly to the intellectual correspondence of a well-respected Maester than the scribbling of a base-born blacksmith." Gendry was not actually sure of anything of the sort, but he figured that a little flattery should help the Maester forget about the state of his charge's well-being and leave him alone for a while.

The Maester smiled and nodded, leaving for the rookery and closing the door behind him.

Finally, peace.

Gendry redirected his sight to the patch of ceiling that was quickly becoming his best friend and allowed his thoughts to drift to the occupant of the small sofa on the other side of the room: the girl who had tried to kill him.

Arya.

He remembered very little of the actual attack; her eyes, the kiss, and the pain all flooded his mind with equally fragmented intensity; but Davos had filled him in on the rest. From what he had been told, Gendry knew that the noise of their scuffle had awoken Ned and Edric who barged into the room just in time to see their King falling to the ground with a knife sticking out of his abdomen like a third arm. With the pommel of his sword, Edric had knocked the attacker out cold and made to drag her to the dungeons while Ned ran for the Maester, but Gendry had ordered his knight not to take her away. She had been gone for too long, he would not let her slip away again.

Gendry didn't often pull rank, but he did for this. They had made him King, dammit, so they _would_ listen to him if he wanted his would-be-killer to stay in his room with him. He was sure they thought he was losing his mind; it _was_ a rather odd thing to insist on; but Gendry was adamant. More adamant than he had ever been about anything since being crowned.

It was that more than anything else that made Davos relent. His King's Guard, however, were not as easily convinced. They did not take her away, but they absolutely insisted on restraints. In too weakened of a state to really do anything about it but make idle threats, Gendry had watched helplessly as Ser Dayne tied Arya's arms to either side of the plush couch in the corner, then did the same with her legs, for good measure.

Honestly, the bonds were unnecessary. Ser Storm had been a bit overzealous in knocking her out. He had been concerned for his King and had used the force needed to take out a large man, not a small woman. While the damage was not permanent, the Maester had needed to treat Arya with milk of the poppy as well, and she had yet to awaken.

When Gendry pointed out that she could hardly cause him any harm while unconscious, his advisors had stared at him like he had spoken in another language. Apparently they thought a knife to the gut had somehow addled his brain.

It hadn't.

If anything, it had made everything clearer.

This was not the Arya he had known.

He supposed he shouldn't be surprised. Years had passed since the last time he had seen her, and she didn't look remotely like he remembered; but there was no mistaking her eyes.

Those had been burned into his memory; he didn't think he would ever forget the look of burning betrayal as he knelt in the mud while receiving his knighthood. The eyes that had tried to kill him a few nights back were missing the betrayal, but there was no mistaking that gray intensity.

He had no idea what the time since their parting held for her, but he wanted to.

He didn't care that she had stabbed him. He didn't care if she was going to try it again the moment she woke up. He didn't even care if she didn't remember who he was. He wanted her around, and that was that.

He was King, damn it. He could be selfish if he wanted.

Besides, he needed someone like her around: someone who would call him stupid; someone who wasn't afraid to offend him; someone who had been his friend before he was King; someone who wouldn't hesitate to knock his feet from under him, coddling be damned.

What he would say to her once she woke, however, he was still trying to figure out.

Shireen and Lord Davos hadn't covered what to say to a lady the next time you saw her after she tried to take your head off. He supposed there wasn't a single chapter that covered that situation in any etiquette book ever written.

Gendry smiled wryly to himself, amused for the first time since he had opened his eyes.

It didn't amuse him for long. The smile fell of his face as the door flew open, banging noisily against the stone wall, and multiple voices started shouting at once.

Based on the volume, Gendry, who was still staring at the ceiling, guessed he had just been joined by five people, or perhaps four very loud ones. Based on what they were yelling, he had a pretty good idea who they were.

The "Your Grace! I never should have left you! I should have been here! Where are the rest of your guards? After what happened all six of them should be by your side every moment of the day!" was obviously from Lady Brienne. Gendry considered placing a bet that she would insist on checking under his bed every night before he went to sleep. If the bet was large enough, he could make enough to pay off the Kingdom's debt.

Almost simultaneously, he heard a bored sounding, "Relax, Brienne. He looks fine. He does not need all seven guards at once. Don't be absurd. They sent one girl after him who can't weigh more than eight or so stone. If he can't take care of himself long enough to not die at the hands of a girl half his size, he doesn't deserve to be King. He would deserve to be dead." No one but Jamie Lannister could have said all of that about King Gendry without Brienne drawing her sword and threatening bodily harm should he/she dare to say such disrespectful things. Since he heard no scrape of steel on steel, he knew it was Lannister who had spoken.

There was no need to guess who said, "Where is she? I swear, Baratheon, if you've had her killed I will set Shaggy on you and let him eat you over the course of eight years. It will be very painful."

 _Oh, good_ , Gendry thought dryly, _The wolf is here, too._

It was the final speaker that finally brought Gendry's blue gaze from the ceiling. "Did she know you? When she saw you, I mean?" Shireen asked gently, taking his hand in one of hers and brushing his hair from his forehead tenderly with the other.

How did she always know the exact right thing to ask? He had never told her about his time with Arya, there was no need to dredge up the past. What happened had happened, and there was nothing he could do to change it. Despite his failure to confide that particular part of his past with her, Shireen had clearly deduced by his behavior that he was more invested in the outcome of the Stark family reunion than those of other houses. Shireen had probably also realized that if Arya previously knew Gendry, she most likely would not have agreed to kill him (which, honestly, was a bit of a leap on her part. Shireen was not privy to how much Gendry had irritated the Lady Stark). In Shireen's mind, the fact that Arya had agreed to the terms of the contract spoke to how much she had forgotten her home. She may not even know herself anymore.

Lifting her hand to his lips, he pressed a fond kiss to her hand and told her, "I've missed you."

She smiled softly, the corners of her eyes crinkling lightly in pleasure at the obvious sincerity in his voice, "And I, you, dearest cousin."

Unfortunately, that would have to be the extent of their greetings for now. There were more pressing matters to attend to.

"Help me sit up?" Gendry asked as he ignored all the orders the Maester had given him earlier that day and pushed himself into the approximation of a sitting position. Shireen hurried to arrange the pillows behind his back while Brienne fluttered uselessly at his other side, both wanting to help him and afraid of injuring him further.

Forcing himself not to wince as his stitches stretched painfully, Gendry looked over to where Rickon Stark was closely examining the woman lying bound and prone on his settee. The boy was skeptical, and understandably so. The figure in front of him bore no resemblance to the sister he remembered, if he remembered her at all, which Gendry seriously doubted. In his experience, no one remembered anything from when they were three, and even if Stark could recall Arya's face, she had aged quite a bit since then.

"How did you know she would be here?" Gendry asked the room at large. It was Shireen who had explained their journey, with Ser Lannister interjecting useless comments now and then and Brienne filling in the parts for which Shireen had been absent. Stark said nothing, choosing to spend his time poking at the body before him, whether to make sure she was real or try to wake her Gendry could not tell.

When the King had been adequately filled in on their conversation with the Faceless Men, Lannister peered over at the occupied couch and asked the question as though he carried no real stock in the answer: "Is it her?"

With a gentleness completely out of character, Stark bent close to his sister's unrecognizable face and pulled the lids of her left eye open with two of his fingers. He spent a good, long moment intensely studying the iris within. "Yes," he replied, wasting no words in the process.

"How do you know for sure?" Shireen prodded kindly.

"Dreams," Rickon stated, and no one had any answer. The whole realm knew the Starks all had strangely vivid dreams. Gendry doubted anyone really understood it, expect perhaps Lord Brandon, but most lords chose to look the other way. Most were suspicious it had something to do with sorcery, and they had good reason to be wary after all that nonsense with his Uncle Stannis' Red Woman. But few were dumb enough to accuse a house as important as the Starks of dabbling in sorcery. Plus, the direwolves kind of discouraged threats and allegations.

Now that he had sufficiently convinced himself that his sister was fine, Stark looked around expectantly. He must not have found what he was looking for, however, because he looked Gendry accusingly, "Where's the wolf?"

Gendry blinked and inwardly cursed himself for such a stupid looking reaction. "There is no wolf," he answered.

Stark's eyebrows came together; well, closer than they normally did during his perpetual scowling; and he rubbed his fingers over the stubble on his chin absently. "Well, that can't be right," he muttered after a moment. Then, he stalked over to the door, wrenched it open, and walked off without so much as a by your leave (not that Gendry really cared for one).

Turning back from where he had watched Stark make his exit, Ser Jamie spoke to the room at large, "He's a strange lad."

Gendry would have laughed if he wasn't currently recovering from a knife wound to the very area that would have allowed him to do so. Rickon Stark _was_ a strange lad. He had left the room without asking the question Gendry thought would be of paramount importance and which Lannister voiced now: "What's wrong with her face? I knew she would look different than she did all those years ago in Winterfell, but I expected she would at least be recognizable. That face is like none I've ever seen before."

"No one's been able to make sense of it," Gendry explained tiredly, "the Maester has taken a look and is consulting other learned men, but he has no explanation as of yet. The best anyone can figure is that it's some sort of Faceless Man trick to which few are privy. I don't think anything can be done until she wakes, and then only if she wants it to."

The four of them were silent then, no one sure what to make of the situation before them. If he had to guess, Gendry would have bet Brienne was trying to reconcile her relief at finding Arya safe with the burning rage she felt that the same girl had threatened the life of her King. Lannister was most likely plotting ways to extend this little quest so he could spend more time with Brienne before finishing his life sentence on the Wall. Shireen was probably worrying over everyone but herself: fretting that Gendry would be forced to execute his friend; anxious that Brienne would commit some folly while trying to fulfill contradictory oaths at once; concerned that Ser Jamie would be a shell of a man without his Lady when he got back to his Black Brothers (Gendry did not share this fear. The Ser Jamie of his acquaintance was practically irrepressible.); and troubled that Stark seemed to be fixated on a wolf instead of the sister he had worked so hard to find.

For his part, Gendry thought Shireen should be more worried for her own wellbeing than anyone else's. His relationship with the ceiling had progressed as far as if was ever going to. Now that she was back, Shireen would be the one forced to entertain him.

The poor girl didn't know what she was in for.

* * *

Rickon Stark insisted that Arya be moved to his room the next morning. She was clearly in no shape to make the journey home, but Gendry could think of no reason to deny Stark's demand other than he didn't want to give her up, which wasn't exactly a good enough reason.

Gendry himself was allowed to leave his bed a few days of maddening boredom later (despite Shireen's best attempts to keep him occupied), and returned to the Iron Throne with the feeling that the whole realm had succumbed to lunacy in the short time he had been indisposed. Of course, Gendry knew this feeling was absurd, Lord Davos more a more than capable ruler in his stead, but the number of foolish petitions he had to sit through on his return made it seem as though all the particularly irritating ones had been saved just for him.

To make matters worse, Brienne had upped his guard to an almost obsessive degree.

There had been times before the Knifing Incident (as he referred to it aloud. In his head, however, it was the Stabbing Kiss Incident. The stabbing was simply retribution for springing a kiss on Arya. He really should have known better.) when he had been left to his own devices, allowed to take a bit of time to himself; now, though, Gendry's every step was shadowed by members of the King's Guard.

Yes, that was plural. Member _s_.

Gendry couldn't walk down the hall without tripping over white armored feet. He couldn't ride through the streets of King's Landing without his King's Guard crowding him so close that his legs were crushed uncomfortably between his own horse and the one beside him. Gendry was tempted to sarcastically suggest to Brienne that it would be safer and more efficient if Pod shared his horse instead of riding beside him; but he refrained because he was afraid she would do just that.

Four of his guards stood watch during his meals, mostly because the King never took his meals alone. He was always attended by some of the court, all of whom could have secreted weapons about their person for such chances to kill their liege (Gendry thought it more likely that his courtiers would kill him with the sheer force with which they pushed their daughters at him. Every single one seemed to have an unhealthy obsession with marrying into the royal family). Brienne had even gone as far as hiring a legion of tasters so large that Gendry was always surprised that there was any food left by the time he got it. Every night when he went to sleep, there were two guards posted outside his door while a third stood at the foot of his bed. Have you ever tried sleeping while someone stares at you all night? It's not easy, or comfortable.

Even when he used the privy Gendry knew there were two guards lurking outside the door, standing so close that their backs could have fused with the door's wood, straining to hear any sounds of distress from within. On multiple occasions, Gendry actually considered making his escape through the sewers; he figured he had been in worse places before; but he knew the consequences would be severe. Brienne would track him down and chain him to her so he would never be out of her care.

These audiences were the one exception. Brienne figured that there were too many witnesses around in the audience chamber for anyone to attempt to kill him. The culprit would never escape with his/her life. Besides, Lord Davos would be there, and Brienne always felt better knowing Lord Davos would be looking after things. Only one guard was needed when King Gendry held court. The rest were supposed to catch up on their sleep so they would be fresh for their next shift.

It was absurd.

Today he was attended by Ser Tommen Waters.

Studying the serious face of the young man standing alertly behind him, hand on the pommel of his sword in case of eminent danger, pure white cloak brushing gently against the stone floor at his feet, and unadorned helm hiding his golden curls from sight, Gendry remembered the first time he had met the knight.

It had been the fifth anniversary of his coronation, and the small council had convinced him that a celebration was necessary. After much consideration and cajoling, Gendry had agreed to hold a tourney, but it would be a small affair. The Crown had made much progress in paying off its debts and refilling its Treasury, but there was still much work to be done, so the champions would have to settle with a small purse and be content with the notoriety they would gain.

The contestants had all fought valiantly, but it had been a small knight in unmarked armor who had won the day. When Gendry went to present the knight with his modest winnings and congratulate him, the knight replied, "Keep your money, Your Grace. The realm has more need of it than I."

Puzzled with how the knight still wore his helm, Gendry had asked, "Is there something else I can give you for your stunning performance today, Ser?"

Getting down on one knee, the mystery man said, "I simply ask for an audience with Your Grace. Privately."

Of course, the word "privately" means something entirely different when it applies to the King, who is rarely ever truly alone. The knight was whisked off to the small council chambers to speak with the King and his Councilors. It was only then that he removed his helm. The memory of the sensation Ser Tommen had caused in that one motion still brought a smile to Gendry's face.

Blades were drawn, words were had, and faces were bruised before Gendry was able to get the room back under his control. "What is it you would ask of me, Ser Lannister?" he asked, only just managing not to laugh at Brienne's furious scowl and the shiner that was forming on Davos' face. They really should have known better than to attack the newly-minted tourney champion.

"It's Waters, actually," the boy corrected him. Gendry felt his Councilors shift uncomfortably around him but nodded for the knight to continue.

"I hear that your King's Guard stands at six."

"It does."

"I would ask to fill that final place, Your Grace."

Gendry was quiet for a few moments and chose his words carefully, "Some of my Councilors would advise me to throw you in the dungeons or cut off your head now to prevent you from trying to regain what they think you feel to be rightfully yours."

Gendry was aware his wording was confusing, but he didn't want to make it sound like _he_ was worried his Throne would be stolen.

His meaning must have been plain enough because Ser Tommen _Waters_ answered, "I have already been a King, Your Grace. I do not envy you your crown."

"But you were born to be King," Gendry said, half hoping the boy would simply take it from him.

"Apologies, Your Grace, but no. No one is really _born_ to be King. A _true_ King knows his people, has their best interests at heart, and is loved as one of them. It is not what makes a man different from his people that makes him fit to be King; it is what makes him the same. From what I have seen, all of the above apply to you, My King," as he finished, Ser Tommen fell to his knees once again, awaiting his King's judgement.

Gendry was convinced of the knight's sincerity; it was hard to doubt those strikingly green eyes; but he had a few more concerns: "And you're willing to give up your claim to Casterly Rock and all that comes with it?" Everyone knew that the boy had been fostered on Casterly Rock with his Uncle Tyrion, and everyone suspected it would be his someday.

"It is true that my uncle would name me his heir, but I am through with being other people's heirs. I will take no wife and father no children. It is better for my line of Lannister to end with me, though I no longer hold that name. I was born a bastard, and a bastard's name I take. Besides, my uncle will have true born heirs of his own soon enough. They don't need me in the way. All I want is to serve you and yours until I die of old age or I am put to the sword by your enemies. That is, of course, if you will take a bastard like me into your service.

Gendry laughed, "Can you imagine the hypocrisy of the Bastard King being prejudice against bastards? Have no fear, Ser Tommen Waters, my bastard kin and I welcome you into the King's Guard."

And Ser Tommen had served faithfully since that day.

Rising from his chair, Gendry hid the exhaustion from his voice and announced, "That will be all for the day. Lord Davos will take over again in the evening."

Gendry left the audience chamber as quickly as he could without running, sighing internally when he heard the gentle clanking of mailed steps echoing his. _Well,_ he thought numbly, _If I'm going to have a shadow, I might as well make conversation._

"So… Ser Waters, how is the Lady Myrcella?"

"You can call me Tommen, Your Grace. She is doing as well as can be expected, in her condition," the knight replied in the typical quiet way he had.

Lord Trystane had married her, and whenever someone asked why he had allowed his lord to marry a bastard traitor (of incest, at that) instead of pointing out the obvious (that Trystane loved her, and that he, Gendry, had nothing against bastards) he simply stated that "Things are different in Dorne." That was usually enough to get people to leave him alone.

"You can call me Gendry, Ser," Gendry shot back.

"Touché, Your Grace."

"Tell me, Ser, how long have you been wielding a sword?" Gendry asked idly, as though it were just a question of passing fancy.

"Just wielding, Your Grace, or with adequate skill?" the clamor of Waters' armored feet on the keep's stones hid Gendry's chuckle. It was not secret knowledge that Ser Waters had been a woefully poor bladesman as a child.

"You do yourself a disservice speaking of your talents in such a deprecating manner. From what I hear in the armory, you're quite the champion in the practice yard."

"Your Grace?" Ser Tommen expressed his confusion as to the reason of this line of questioning with the inflection of his voice.

"What, exactly, are your post-court instructions from the Lady Commander?" Gendry asked innocently.

"I believe you already know the answer to your own question, but I'm supposed to escort you back to your chamber where you are supposed to rest and I am supposed to send a messenger to the rest of the King's Guard with word that the audience is over. Then, we wait for them to arrive, just like we did yesterday, and the day before… and the day before… need I continue?"

Gendry stopped abruptly at a juncture in the hallway and turned to face his guard. "The seven of you have been working exceedingly hard the last few weeks: spending every hour of every day watching my back, sitting in on boring meetings, traipsing around with me on tedious errands, never getting a second's rest. I suppose it's part of the job, but I will be eternally grateful." Gendry thought he might be laying it on a bit thick, after all he would have gladly forgone all of it, and Ser Waters seemed to think so too if his half smile was anything to go on, but he did not interrupt. Adopting a concerned look, he suggested lightly, "We finished holding court a little early today, but I see no reason to wake your comrades before the usual hour, do you?"

Now Ser Waters really smiled, but asked in a deeply serious tone, "And what do you suggest we do until you have decided they have had enough sleep, Your Grace?"

Gendry knew the knight before him took his job very seriously – they all did, just some more than others – but over the last few days Gendry had gotten the impression that a few of his elite guard were beginning to think their Commander was going a bit… overboard, to put it nicely. The perpetrator had been caught for gods sake! She was currently confined to her brother's chamber, surrounded by the guards of the Red Keep, and still unconscious for medical reasons. She was in no condition to be making attempts on his life, and if she tried anything once her eyes were open, they were more than ready for her this time…

Gendry almost allowed himself to be distracted from the purpose of his current conversation by thoughts of _her_ , which would entirely defeat the purpose. He was doing all this to _forget_ about her. Clear his mind. Ease his troubles. Just. Not. Think.

Clearing his throat as though doing so could clear his head as well, Gendry explained to Ser Waters that he was hoping to "hammer out some frustrations" and get some exercise, for the good of his recovery, of course, so the two of them turned away from the hall that headed to his apartments and directed their feet to the forge.

Ah, the forge. The only place in the entire bloody kingdom in which he _always_ felt like himself.

Striding with purpose to the empty grate, Gendry let the force of habit take over. He lit the fire and began the whole process, letting instinct take over the mindless task. Waiting for the flames to reach the desired temperature, Gendry removed his cloak and crown, tossing them carelessly on a work bench in a corner, and began to roll up his shirt sleeves. Considering for a moment, he decided to save his servants some time later and just removed it all together. No point in dirtying another garment if he could prevent it.

The smell of the fire, the suffocating heat of the air, and familiar heft of the tools grasped in his hand washed everything else from his mind. Here he could let himself think of nothing, which, ironically, helped him think more clearly than ever.

And there was a lot to think about.

Gendry decided to focus on the least important. Get the easy things done first.

During his sickness, Lord Tyrion's help had been indispensable; he and the Lord Hand had taken turns relieving Gendry of court duty in an effort to ease him back into his duties after his convalescence; and Gendry had no way of expressing his gratitude that could ever be sufficient. An offering of gold would be redundant (plus, he couldn't afford it), an appointment to the small council would be impractical since Tyrion had his own portion of the kingdom to look after, and none of the Lannister children were yet old enough for Gendry to offer to arrange a betrothal (not that he was comfortable doing that to or for anyone), but a man of Lannister's voracious scholarly appetite would always been in need of a good pen knife (and Gendry found that such things were easily misplaced), so he set himself about the task of making one.

He didn't know how much time passed he hammered away. The seconds all ran together and the sweat ran down his back to soak into the waist of his trousers, and the only way he knew time was passing at all was by the gradual shaping by the item before him and the equally as steady easing of tension in his shoulders.

Gendry put the knife aside and grabbed the ceramic jug of water behind him. It was warm from the heat of the fire, but he needed a quick break, and it felt deliciously soothing on his raw throat. Pouring a good amount over his head and using the moisture to slick his hair out of his face, Gendry paused to consider that this knife was not the only trinket he needed to be crafting in thanks.

Lady Lannister had been just as indispensable as her husband but in a completely different way. Having only met her on three or four occasions before this visit, he had never known more about her than what appeared on the surface: she was graceful, polite, slightly aloof, and undeniably lovely. But further review had proven that Sansa Lannister was more than she appeared.

Since the day she arrived, she had effectively taken his household in hand. Shireen was excellent at managing everyday tasks, but she was unused to dealing with two very restless men and a giant wolf on top of everything else. Lady Sansa, however, seemed to know just what to do and say to keep her brother, his wolf, and her brother-in-law from lighting the Red Keep on fire.

She was also great company for Shireen. Gendry had never put much thought into the women that made up the Princess's ladies, but seeing the way Shireen and Sansa interacted, he realized that the ladies of King's Landing were shallow, silly, simpering little girls without a lick of sense. Lady Sansa was more than that and allowed Shireen to be more too.

Overall, Gendry liked Sansa Lannister. She was everything he knew he should be looking for in a Queen, and he was exceedingly glad she was someone else's wife.

Rubbing absently at a crick in his neck, Gendry wondered whether Lady Sansa would prefer a bracelet in gold or silver. Deciding to go with silver since she probably got enough gold from her lord husband, Gendry was gathering the supplies he would need when Ser Tommen called to him.

"Pardon me, Your Grace, but there's a message from the palace," Gendry turned to the door to find Ser Tommen; looking very out of place in the sooty forge wearing his immaculately white armor; hand resting on the shoulder of a young serving boy who was bent over in an attempt to catch his breath.

"Your Grace," he panted, "The Princess… the Princess sent… sent me."

Gendry grabbed the jug of water and passed it to the boy, motioning for him to take a seat. The boy accepted the jug and poured the water in his mouth faster than he could gulp it down in his haste to deliver his message to his King. Once the boy managed to stop choking on the water by spilling it all over his shirt, he handed the jug back to Gendry and got around to what he had come to do in the first place, "The Princess sent me, Your Grace. She told me to tell you these words exactly: 'She's awake.'"

The jug shattered on the ground, drenching the poor messenger boy's boots, and Gendry was halfway out the door, followed closely by a swish of pure white.

She's awake!

 **A/N: Sorry about the delay in posting. I hope you're not too disappointed with this offering. Let me know what you think. :)**


	6. Chapter 6: Rickon

Chapter 6: Rickon

Rickon Stark had been obsessed with many things in his life. He supposed it was a family trait of sorts.

His Lord Father's obsession with the proper line the proper line of succession had been his undoing.

His Lady Mother's crusade for revenge had wreaked havoc across a good portion of the seven kingdoms before she had been killed. Again.

Lord Robb, from what Rickon had been told, had had a rather unhealthy need to do what he thought his father would have done, not what he, himself thought was right.

Rickon was eternally grateful he had not been old enough to remember it, but Bran had informed him that Sansa had once been annoyingly infatuated with Joffrey Baratheon, or should he say Lannister? Luckily, she had come to her senses fairly quickly.

With Bran, of course, it had been that dammed three eyed crow and the children of the forest. Rickon had lost count of how many times Bran had recounted that first dream with the crow.

Jon's unwavering belief that the White Walkers would be back was bordering on the insane in Rickon's opinion. Winter was over. They would not be back for another thousand years at least. Plenty of time for the realm to forget all about them again.

For his part, there had been times in the last 10 years or so that survival and domination were more important to him than air. Blood and carnage had ahold of his mind, and every waking thought – and a good portion of his unconscious thoughts – were consumed with crushing his foes and rivals. In its own way, Skaggos had been good for him. He was stronger and more suspicious, or less trusting, than he would have been otherwise, but the Seven Kingdoms was his home, and a break from the relentless "kill or be killed" mentality of the wild lands was extremely welcome.

As for Arya… well, he did not know what, when, or if she had ever been obsessed with anything, but he did know that she was solely responsible for _his_ latest fixation.

The Wolf. The damn Wolf.

Nymeria had not been seen by anyone, but Rickon was convinced she was somewhere close by. She had been present in the dream, and since Arya refused to see him, Rickon had to make himself useful and find the damn Wolf.

Rickson scowled from atop his horse as he waited impatiently in the courtyard for those who would be joining him in the search for Nymeria, or, as he called them in his head, Sansa's Nursemaids.

Sansa Lannister had arrived in King's Landing just a few days after Rickon had returned. Apparently the King had sent his fastest rider to Casterly Rock; and a raven for good measure; and the Lannisters had traveled day and night, only stopping to change horses.

The moment she had arrived Sansa had burst into his bedchamber, jumped onto his bed, flung her arms around his neck, and began sobbing. Once he had awakened enough to realize who was strangling him and put away the knife he had pulled from under his pillow, Rickon managed to decipher between sobs that Sansa was crying with joy and relief that the remaining Starks were all accounted for and would be together again.

Comforting people had never been his strong suit, so as soon as he had disentangled himself enough to pat her awkwardly on the back, mumble something about being glad to see her (which he was, but he would have preferred not to have their touching reunion in the late hours of the night) and how she must be exhausted from her journey, he pulled the sheets tighter around himself and yelled out the door for someone to escort Lady Sansa to her chambers. As he ushered his sister to the door, assuring her he would visit her properly first thing in the morning and take her to see Arya, Sansa regained control enough to reach up and brush Rickon's sleep-mussed hair out of his face.

The gesture was so fond and genuine that Rickon allowed himself a brief moment of affection as well.

"It really is good to see you, Sansa," he told her quietly and kissed her on the head. Then he pushed her into the hallway and shut the door in her face.

Looking back on the moment as he brooded impatiently on his horse, Rickon supposed that that small action had been the reason he had agreed; well, not so much "agreed to" as "not thrown as much of a fit" as he would have if anyone else had suggested it; to the guard going with him on the hunt for Nymeria. Sansa was the closest thing to a mother he had left; Osha having passed before he was ten and his Lady Mother but a memory; and he had not known how he much he had missed having one.

His scowl deepened as he realized this weakness and immediately vowed to nip all sentiment in the bud.

Rickon was just contemplating whether the guards would let him leave if he stared at them hard enough or if he would need Shaggy to growl at them a little when Jamie Lannister sauntered over.

"Good morning, Lord Stark," Lannister said pleasantly as he adjusted the saddle on his horse, "It's a beautiful day for a ride, is it not?"

Rickon's hands tightened on his reigns, "What are you doing here, Lannister? Don't you have Kings to slay, or puppies to eat, or children's dreams to crush?"

"Very creative, Stark," Lannister replied calmly, "I have not heard the one about the puppies before. I am your guard on this venture, in case you had not figured that out yet. Do you have a plan for where to begin, or are we just going to ride around and hope we stumble over a wolf?"

"I will not ask again, Lannister," Rickon said, considerably less composed than his companion, and ignoring the question altogether, "Why are you here? Sansa said I would be required to have a guard if I wanted to venture from the palace, but she said nothing about being accompanied by a disgraced demon of a disfigured swordsman."

"Your Lady sister wanted to send half the Kingsguard and a regiment of the city guard with you, but the King stepped in, saying that you might prefer something a bit stealthier for your hunting party. With a good deal of persuasion, the King was able to knock your entourage down from around forty to two: the savage beast you call your only friend and the best swordsman in all seven kingdoms. Unfortunately for you, I happen be that swordsman, so if we could dispense with the alliterative insults and call that creature of yours we could be on our way."

Lannister swung up into his saddle and quirked an eyebrow at Rickon expectedly. As much as he hated the man beside him, was suspicious of the man who had suggested Lannister come with him, and was enraged that these two men he despised seemed to have the right of it, one guard, no matter how loathsome, was infinitely preferable to whatever Sansa had had in mind for him. So, with bad grace, Rickon glared at his smug companion and whistled for Shaggy.

After a couple tense minutes in which Lannister looked all too pleased with himself and Rickon became increasingly uncomfortable with the warmth of the Southern sun mixed with the heat of his anger, Rickon heard the telltale sound of wolf claws on cobblestones accompanied by laughter. Before Rickon had time to do more than process the thought that he recognized the laughter and curse himself for being able to do so, Shaggy came into view, playfully pushing a smiling Princess Shireen before him.

Tensing in his saddle, Rickon wondered vaguely if there was a chance she would not see him, but his absurd hopes were dashed the next second when she looked up from where Shaggy was nudging her forward and met his gaze. Embarrassed and taken by surprise, the Princess stopped in her tracks and was nearly bowled over from behind by an overeager wolf.

She recovered admirably fast, straightening herself and relying on the courtesies of court to cover her discomfort. "Good morning, Lord Rickon, I hope you are well," she greeted politely, seeming not to notice Lannister was present as well. Rickon knew that etiquette dictates that he dismount when speaking to an unhorsed Lady, but he did not think the rules of acceptable behavior took into account the resentful feelings of a teenaged boy when addressing the only person said boy's long-lost sister would agree to see.

The injustice of it all stung worse than the time he had gotten into a fight with one of the Walders back at Winterfell and the Walder in question had smashed a lemon in his face. He had been blinking lemon juice out of his raw and watering eyes for days. Why, in the name of the gods would Arya want to see _HER_? A _useless_ Princess?! Over her own blood?!

"Get down from your horse, Boy!" Lannister hissed, "Before I make you!"

Rickon's first instinct was to do exactly the opposite of whatever Lannister wanted him to do. The thought was tempting indeed. But the possibility of word getting to Sansa of his rudeness, and the maddening fact that Lannister probably _could_ make him get off his horse simply because Rickon was not yet fully grown, prompted him to dismount and face the Princess. But he took his sweet time about it.

Shaggy came bounding up to Rickon as his feet touched the ground, and, as always, the solid presence of Shaggy's head beneath his palm calmed and strengthened him as nothing else could. They were a team, and together, they could talk to this accursed Princess without letting her see how much they were jealous and hurting because of her.

Rickon straightened to his full height and forced his eyes to her face, ready to fling all the politeness required of him at her with enough hatred and power to take off her pretty, little head, but the moment he met her tired, tortured gaze, all the fight went out of him.

She looked terrible.

Her eyes were red-rimmed, hollow pits of worry and despair, her hair was unwashed and falling out of her careful plait into her face, and, most troubling of all, the constant smile that always graced her face and made Rickon wonder if she were physically capable of frowning was so noticeably absent that it looked as though it had never existed.

He knew she had just come from Arya's chambers. He knew this because when he wasn't busy pretending to sleep, thrashing his sparring partners in the training yard, or failing to convince Sansa that he was alright, Rickon was watching Arya's door. Shireen would go in and stay for hours and days at a time, leaving only to bring out untouched plates of food that had begun to spoil or update Sansa on their sister's condition. Her dejected state right now could mean nothing good.

Mood softening against his will, Rickon was slightly less cold than he had been planning to be as he addressed the young woman before him: "I am as well as can be expected in the company of the idiot knight beside me. I would ask you how you are faring, but you look awful, so I feel that might be redundant."

Rickon heard, but ignored, an exasperated sigh from Lannister and what sounded suspiciously like a blade being half-drawn in a threat to behave himself.

Princess Shireen smoothed her hair back from her face absently, but gave no indication that she had been offended, probably because she seemed distracted, clearly having some internal struggle. A pregnant pause passed as she decided, the pawing of the horses the only thing to punctuate the silence.

Rickon watched curiously as Shireen came to a visual decision. She closed her eyes, breathed in a steeling lungful of air, held it for a couple seconds, reopened her eyes, and let out a carefully enunciated, "I thought you might like to know how the Lady Arya fares."

Rickon froze at the words, whether from rage or anticipation he could not tell.

Of course he wanted to know how Arya fared! He had thought of little else since he had seen her lying tied to a couch in the Baratheon's chambers! What he wanted more than that, however, was to have this knowledge from his own observations rather than waiting at the mercy of this _undeserving busybody_ for any scrap of news _about his own sister_ like some type of helpless beggar!

Unable to form a proper response, Rickon managed a sort of strangled grunt and held his breath for her reply.

Looking him full in the face, she spoke slowly and calmly, choosing her words carefully, like he might run off like a frightened rabbit if she were to say something wrong: "The Lady Arya does not speak. She barely eats, and she only sleeps for minutes at a time. The maester has made no progress on removing the face she arrived with, and she does not seem to want to rid herself of it. There are times when I think she has some idea who she is and why she's here and other times when she shows no recognition of anyone or anything, nor does she seem to understand the words I speak to her. The only positive thing I can say about her recovery is that she has stopped struggling constantly against her bonds; though, I am not convinced it is not because her wrists are simply too raw to take any more abuse."

The Princess's shoulders slumped in defeat, and her darkly circled eyes shone with tears. Hesitantly, she placed her hand weakly on Rickon's arm, as if to draw strength from his presence, and whispered, "I do not know what else to do. Tell me what else to do."

If Rickon was in the habit of feeling empathy, the pain and desperation in her voice would have nearly killed him. Why did the girl have such a bleeding-heart? She had never known Arya. She had only just met Sansa and him. Why in the world did she seem to care so much? Luckily, Rickon much preferred _not_ to feel anything if he could help it.

Nothing besides anger and resentment. Those he could handle and planned to use to drive out these unfamiliar sensations settling uncomfortably in his chest.

Who did this woman think she was? The Starks had always been a highly private people, and she was interfering, without being asked (well, maybe Sansa had asked. _He_ certainly had not), in _family business!_

And now _she was TOUCHING HIM!_ No one was allowed to touch him!

The unfairness unfairness of it all came rushing back with the weight of her dainty hand on his forearm. "You've done enough," he hissed, yanking his arm away and flinging himself back onto his horse. He dug his heels into the sides of his horse, cloak whipping behind him, and a howling Shaggy racing at his heels. Deaf to Lannister's loud reprimands, Rickon's hatred and anger was only amplified by the guilt he shoved deep down the moment he saw the Princess's downcast expression imploring him not to despise h

He rode faster than was probably advisable through the streets of King's Landing, tearing recklessly between vendor stalls in the market and narrowly avoiding trampling a parade of Septas on their way to morning prayers. The city gates were soon upon him, and Rickon brushed aside the shouts of the guards as he galloped past security, nearly taking out a cart full of wine barrels being inspected as he did. He could hear the apologetic shouts of Lannister behind him as the knight simultaneously tried to fix the damage Rickon was leaving in his wake and catch up to the boy in order to properly thrash him for his appalling behavior.

A headache of rage and powerlessness, the kind that had been reoccurring ever since Arya had regained consciousness, was building somewhere behind his eyes, so he drove his horse a little harder and tried to make the wind cool his burning skin.

He had gotten the news in the middle of training session. A training session in which he had been intent on tearing apart some of the Lannister guardsmen while trying not to let them do the same. All the fury and frustration he had been feeling over the entire Arya situation was being poured into his sword, both enabling him to keep his opponents on defense while hindering his attention to keeping up his own guard. As a result, all participants were going to walk away from this fight nursing unnecessary cuts and bruises.

He had been in the process of trying to trap the other swordsman against the fence of the fighting ring when something hit his head from behind him. Suspecting a sneak attack from one of his opponent's peers, Rickon spun around, ready to unleash his anger on both of them, only to find no one there.

Stopping mid-swing of his sword, Rickon looked on the ground to find a women's shoe laying before him. Baffled, and now distracted enough to let his sparring mate escape, Rickon picked up the shoe and looked around for its source.

Standing at the entrance to the practice field was his sister Sansa, pink-faced and breathless as if she had run there, and minus one shoe. A shoe matching the one in his hand.

"Sorry," she told him in response to the way he brandished the offending object at her questioningly, "but I have been calling you for the last minute, and you showed no sign of hearing me. Arya is awake! Let's go!" And she took off running again, not bothering to either replace her shoe on her foot or take its twin off.

Rickon stood there like an idiot for a minute, hardly believing what he had heard. He had been praying in the Red Keep's pathetic Godswood for exactly this to happen, but now that it had, he was unsure as how to proceed.

By this time, Sansa was more than halfway down the hall, so Rickon made haste to follow her. Stowing his sword back in its sheath and stuffing Sansa's shoe in his tunic pocket, he raced after her, sliding around corners and knocking into servants as he went. Muttering a partial apology to a washer girl whose bundle of dirty sheets he had knocked all over the corridor along with the girl herself, and pausing only long enough to yank the girl back to a standing position, Rickson's mind began running faster than his feet.

 _What if she doesn't remember me? What if she does and doesn't want anything to do with me? What if she would have remembered me, but idiotic Ned Dayne's blow to her head gave her amnesia? What if she tries to kill us all the moment she sees us? What if she finds out about everything that happened on Skaagos and is repulsed by me? What if I am the only one she_ doesn't _remember? What if I am doing all of this worrying for nothing?_

He could see Sansa stop ahead of him approaching the door cautiously, like it would unexpectedly spring at her. She had her hand on the door handle when he reached her, but could not seem to make the move to open it. Rickon felt better know he was not the only one who was anxious.

Slipping his right hand into her left, his other hand joined hers on the handle, and together, they eased the door open and slipped inside.

The room was much as he had left it this morning: sheets balled on the floor, clothes and muddy boots piled in the corner, and the remains of Shaggy's breakfast in the middle of the floor. As they had every time he entered the room since he had returned from Braavos, Rickon's eyes flickered to the bed in the corner that Arya had been occupying.

It was empty.

For a moment, the sight of the rumpled sheets with no one in them made Rickon panic. They had just found her, and she was gone again!? His alarm was short lived, however, as a gasp from Sansa drew his attention to the ceiling.

Why or how she had gotten up there, Rickon had no idea, but she was up and moving, and that was really all he cared about at the moment. Her face was still a stranger's, but the eyes were familiar, though emotionally blank. She was perched on a beam, ready to spring at them if she decided they posed a threat.

From beside him, Sansa spoke up cautiously, "Arya?"

Arya did not respond. But she also did not attack them, which Rickon took as a good sign. He took a step forward and attempted his own entreaty, "Arya, are you alright?"

Again she did not respond. Was she just ignoring them? Did she not remember them? Or, even more frightening, did she not even remember her own name?

"Will you come down from there, please?" Sansa asked, gripping Rickon's hand tighter in her hopeful anxiety.

The blank look in Arya's eyes did not change, and she continued to crouch like a statue on her beam. She reminded Rickon strongly of a deer in the sights of a hunter, frozen in an attempt to be invisible, but ready to leap into action at the first sign that the ploy had not worked.

Rickon was debating whether the best course of action was to lure her down or climb to the beam himself and push her down when frantic footsteps could be heard approaching. The door swung open with such force that it collided with the wall hard enough to make the hinges groan in protest, and the King barreled in. He was frenzied and wild looking, shirtless and covered in sweaty streaks of soot. Without the crown and finery, he looked much younger, and before now, Rickon had never put much stock in the stories he had heard of the King's strength during battle. This man before him, however, seemed capable of killing a dragon, aided by the desperate fire blazing in his gaze.

"Where is she?" he panted, chest moving rapidly to replace the air he had expended in running there.

For once, Rickon had no snide words to hurl at Baratheon, he just mutely pointed to the ceiling. Following the line of his own finger, Rickon expected to find the living gargoyle unchanged by the suddenness of the new arrival, but what had been an apathetic mask was now consumed with rage and… was that _hurt_ he was seeing?

"You!" Arya hissed and lunged at the King.

Out of instinct more than fear, Rickon threw himself at Sansa, knocking her out of the way of Arya's attack, even though it was quite clear that Sansa was not Arya's intended target. Taken by surprise, Sansa did not fight him as he tucked her behind the desk for safekeeping. He tore his sword from his belt and prepared to defend his other sister from Baratheon, but he found that his assistance was not needed.

Arya had latched herself to Baratheon's back in a death grip and was attempting to choke him out. For his part, Baratheon seemed either unable or unwilling to fight back and was turning a darker shade of purple by the minute.

That was when the Princess had arrived, with three of the King's Guard on her heels.

Arya swore at them as they pried her off their liege, biting, clawing, and flailing at them all the while.

Two of them began dragging her away, and when Rickon made to stop them, the third blocked his progress. Had it not been for Sansa attaching herself to his arm and begging him not to, Rickon would have engaged in a duel right there in his bed chamber. Frustrated and angry as he was, Rickon knew Sansa was right. If he fought back, he could only make thing worse for Arya, so he stood there uselessly as they dragged her away.

Of all the possible negative outcomes Rickon had imagined when worrying about how his reunion with Arya would go, reality was worse by far. She had only recognized Baratheon!

Why?!

What was he to her? Did she just know his face because he was her target, or was it something more than that? Rickon was frustrated by the fact that he didn't seem to understand anything. No one's motivations made sense to him, and he couldn't even tell if he was reading too much into everything!

She had been moved to another chamber after that, her hands and legs restrained, and guards posted outside the door. Once she had calmed down, they had all tried to visit her again, but each time Arya would clutch her head as if in agonizing pain and yell at them in Braavossi until they left. His only consolation was that Baratheon fared no better during his visits.

Rickon does not like to feel lost. He doesn't like to rely on other people. He doesn't like the thought of his sister not remembering him. He definitely does not like idly waiting for things he cannot change.

Oh, and he absolutely _hates_ Lannister.

Feeling all such things at the sight of the Princess is probably not a good excuse for treating her the way he had, Rickon mused as he allowed his horse to slow to a comfortable walk a good five miles from the city walls. He had hoped that he had lost Lannister in his headlong rush through the streets, but he could hear a second pair of hooves falling into place beside him and knew his wish had not been granted.

Lannister kept his silence long enough to make Rickon think that the verbal thrashing he had expected is not going to happen before he says, "You really put on a show back there, didn't you?"

Rickon clenched his teeth together, but said nothing. Why couldn't Vargo Hoat have cut out Lannister's tongue as well as his hand? Jaime Lannister would be much more likeable without a tongue.

"Princess Shireen is the most compassionate person I have ever met," Lannister stated, almost offhandedly, "She genuinely wants to help people, often at personal disadvantage." Here, he pauses to brush some dirt off his jacket, but Rickon suspects that he just wants to let his words set in. "I think," he continued, "that if anything were to happen to our great King, the Princess would make a wonderful Queen because of it."

"You're not telling me anything I don't already know," Rickon spat at his companion, making to speed up and move ahead, but Lannister beat him to it.

Blocking Rickon's path, the knight maneuvered his horse in a way that forced Rickon to stop and pay attention, "But you seem to need a reminder. The Princess does not _have_ to help you. There is nothing in it for her, and yet, she spends every minute of her day tending to Lady Arya. You _saw_ how she looks. I don't think she's slept in days! You may think she's interfering in family matters, but what would you do without her? Huh? Arya will not see you. Arya will not see Sansa. You are darned _lucky_ that the Princess has taken pity on the three of you and decided to deal with this whole situation herself instead of pawning it off on servants or kicking the lot of you out of King's Landing for overstaying your welcome and _taking her for granted_. Show some appreciation, Boy. Yelling at the Princess won't make your sister better."

Lannister held them there until he was satisfied that he had Rickon squirming uncomfortably in his saddle under such harsh and truthful scrutiny before he directed his horse back into position and allowed them to continue on their way.

Rickon knew he had behaved poorly, he didn't need Lannister to tell him that, and his ears burned unpleasantly from the shame of his actions and indignation at being scolded by Jaime Lannister of all people. He was just getting his complexion back to normal when Ser Jaime decided he wasn't quite finished: "Plus, that's no way to get a maid to like you, lad."

Rickon growled, spurned his horse ahead to get away from this _ludicrous_ man, and shouted, "Good!" over his shoulder.

Lannister just laughed and followed.

* * *

It was late by the time they returned to the keep, and there had been little sign of Nymeria.

Rickon and Lannister had divided the surrounding area into sections and worked out a system in which to search them all systematically. The sections they had searched that day yielded nothing of use. All indications of wolf packs were either too old to tell them anything relevant or did not include evidence of a wolf that would be sufficient size for a direwolf.

It would be slow work, but Rickon was hopeful. If nothing else, it would keep him occupied.

Ignoring Lannister's bid goodnight, Rickon stalked off toward his chamber, rubbing his eyes tiredly and inwardly cursing whoever decided to settle this far south in the first place. Humans were clearly not made for this kind of heat if the amount of sweating he had been doing was anything to go by. In his attempt to liberate himself from his sweat-laden doublet, Rickon had not noticed that his feet had carried him not to his chamber but to Arya's until he was standing before her door.

Her guarded door.

Rickon knew the guard changes by heart. He knew when meals would be delivered, and when the maester would stop by on his daily rounds. He knew which servants would stop by to bring fresh sheets and empty the chamber pot. He even knew the names, ages, and family circumstances of each of these servants.

He had, after all, kept careful watch over this particular door, but he had never kept his vigil in front of it. Rickon always did his observing from less conspicuous locations. There were fewer looks and questions that way, and he could see how his sister was being treated when people thought he was not around to regulate everything.

But right now Rickon was tired. Tired, hot, and past caring what any guard thought of him. Throwing the doublet and his riding cloak on the floor, Rickon sank down next to them, back against the wall and legs splayed across the corridor where anyone could trip over them. Not that anyone would be up at this hour.

Studiously ignoring the guards, as they did the same, Rickon rubbed his face vigorously to wake up a bit, then began rolling up his sleeves, wondering idly if taking off his boots was going too far. He had just decided that he did not care either way and bent over to pull them off when he heard the scuff of boots and whisper of a cloak against the stones.

Apparently the King was in the habit of taking late night strolls. Strolls that often brought him before Arya's door if the lack of surprise on the guards' faces was any indication.

The King sure was surprised to see Rickon, however. Baratheon stopped so suddenly when he saw he had company that he half tripped over himself in his haste. They stared at each other silently for an uncomfortable period of time before Baratheon rubbed his neck embarrassedly, muttered what could have been, "My apologies," and made to leave the way he came.

Rickon did not know what made him do it; maybe it was the exhaustion, maybe it was he heat, maybe Sansa's influence was making him soft, or maybe he was sick of being suspicious of everyone and everything; but he leaned his head back against the wall and addressed the other side of the corridor instead of the man before him, "Sit down, Baratheon. I won't bite."

He closed his eyes then, as if whether the King stayed or went made no difference to him, but he knew Baratheon took a seat on the windowsill by the way less moonlight filtered through his eyelids.

It was pleasant, in a way, sitting here in the hall. Rickon had to give Baratheon credit: he didn't bother one with pointless chatter. In fact, the King was silent enough that Rickon could pretend he was not there if he wished. Which he did.

The silence was broken more than a half an hour later with the arrival of a third party.

"I see we are all of the same mind tonight," Sansa said softly as she approached Arya's door, "I could not sleep."

Baratheon jumped to his feet and made to straighten his clothes now that he was in the presence of a lady. "Lady Lannister," he blustered, "would you care to sit? I can go fetch you a chair…"

Rickon rolled his eyes, and Sansa waved off the offer, "No need, Your Grace. Do not go to any trouble on my account." Gathering her skirts, Sansa joined Rickon on the floor, and Baratheon hesitantly went back to his perch by the window.

Taking his sister's hand and giving it a reassuring squeeze, Rickon shut his eyes again and took heart in the fact that she would help him keep this vigil. No matter how long it took.

 **A/N: Thanks for reading! I hope you enjoyed it. Please let me know what you think. :)**


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